


though that road may wander, it will lead me to you

by andrewminyards



Series: i am made of memories [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings Realization, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Multiverse, Pining, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Sad Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, dad jaskier and dad geralt, some soft kissing, tissaia and vesemir are also here, we have 2 geralts both of whom love jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27370834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards/pseuds/andrewminyards
Summary: “Geralt,” the witcher breathes out, mouth slack in shock. He looks so achingly familiar, and Geralt realises that he recognises those features, the lines of that face, and he knows - “Geralt, you’realive-”The witcher - Jaskier launches himself at Geralt and then he’skissinghim, hard and fast and desperate, and Geralt freezes. He and Jaskier aren’t together, not like that, but within him, there’s an inexplicable urge to kiss back.Frozen in shock thatJaskier is kissing him, Geralt doesn’t react, and Jaskier pulls away, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Suddenly, there’s a dagger at Geralt’s throat as Jaskier snarls, “You’re not Geralt. Whoareyou?”“I’m Geralt, I’m just… not yours,” Geralt explains, and Jaskier stares at him. “I’m from another world.”Or:Geralt travels to a universe where Jaskier is a witcher. In this universe, Jaskier and Geralt are together, and Geralt wrestles with his feelings for Jaskier as he helps save a kidnapped Ciri.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: i am made of memories [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784458
Comments: 78
Kudos: 359





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is set some time after the main series, when julian and geralt have gotten together - you don't need to have read the series to understand this. 
> 
> i'm sorry, this is unedited and might be a bit of a hot mess, but do buckle in for a ton of feels!

The portal spits Geralt and Ciri out to some sort of fancy home, perhaps a mansion belonging to a noble, with gleaming marble floors and glittering chandeliers hanging on the ceilings, and Geralt looks around him, wary and cautious, heart sinking at the lack of Jaskier. He should be used to this by now, not finding _his_ Jaskier in any of the universes he lands it, but it’s been so _long_ , and there have been _so many universes_ , and Jaskier is still _gone_.

Geralt just -

He shuts his eyes for a moment, longing for the quiet crackle of a campfire, the low creak of a bed at an inn, the briny scent of the sea, the musical hum of song. He just wants to _find_ Jaskier - but Geralt is in some sort of grand mansion right now, and Jaskier is so, so far away. 

Ciri lays a gentle hand on his arm, looking at him with eyes filled with sad understanding, and Geralt pulls himself back to reality. They need to get through this universe. They need to recharge. Then - _then_ , they will continue on their journey, and they won’t stop until they find Jaskier.

A soft murmur of voices floats down the hall, and Geralt exchanges a look with Ciri, silently agreeing to head towards the voices. Geralt creeps down the hall on silent feet, keeping to the shadows with Ciri behind him, until he stops outside of a room with a slightly open door and the voices become clear.

“- need to go _find_ them,” a low, raspy voice snaps. “We can’t just - just stay here and do nothing!”

“Barging in right now would not be helpful,” a calm voice replies, collected and even, and Geralt inches closer, deftly avoiding some fancy vase while Ciri follows him silently. “We need to wait and plan. Recklessness will do nothing.”

“Tissaia is right,” another voice adds, and Geralt realises with a jolt that he _recognises_ that voice - it’s Vesemir, and part of him calms at the knowledge that his mentor is _here_. “We can’t rush in without a plan.”

“But we can’t -” the first voice cuts off with a frustrated sigh, and Geralt can hear the sounds of pacing. “I can’t just leave them, I can’t -”

“Wait,” the second voice - Tissaia, Vesemir had said - interrupts sharply, and the conversation halts. “There is a magical signature nearby that wasn’t there earlier.”

“Where,” Vesemir growls, and Geralt can hear the sounds of swords being pulled out of their sheaths. He exchanges a wary look with Ciri, who’s standing still and silent, and arches a brow. Should they reveal themselves?

Ciri makes the decision for him, and she steps into the room, arms raised in a gesture of peace. “We mean no harm,” she says, and tilts her head towards Geralt, beckoning him to reveal himself. “Please, hear us out.”

Geralt steps out into full view, keeping his posture open and harmless. If this Vesemir is anything like his own, he must be wary of strangers, and Geralt wants to avoid any aggressive interactions if possible. He’s met with three figures standing in a magnificently decorated room - Vesemir, as Geralt had expected, Tissaia, the Rectoress of Aretuxa, who has chaos crackling in the air around her, and a witcher who Geralt has never met before.

That witcher must have been the source of the first voice Geralt had heard, and Geralt takes him in, noting with slight surprise that the witcher has silver hair, like him, and his face is marked by multiple scars slashing across it. He’s dressed casually, in a loose, unbuttoned shirt and tight trousers, but he has a hand on a gleaming dagger at his hip as he regards Ciri with wary golden eyes. 

He looks so _familiar_ , but Geralt can’t quite put his finger on it. Perhaps he’s met this witcher in his travels before, but surely he would remember meeting another witcher who, like him, has received extra mutations, if the silver hair is anything to go by. Geralt tries to look more closely at the witcher’s face, tries to figure out why exactly his features tug at something at the back of his mind, but before he can fully register why the witcher is so - so _familiar_ , the witcher’s sharp gaze shifts from Ciri to Geralt, and his eyes widen, mouth dropping open.

“ _Geralt_ ,” the witcher breathes out, mouth slack in shock. There’s so much sheer _relief_ in his voice, mixed with so much pain and worry, and Geralt feels like he should _know_ this witcher, who so clearly cares for this universe’s version of him. “Geralt, you’re - you’re -”

The witcher’s hand drops from his dagger, and before Geralt can react, he’s launched himself at Geralt and then he’s _kissing_ him, hard and fast and desperate, one callused hand cupping Geralt’s face and the other curling around Geralt’s neck in a gentle grip, and Geralt stands still, frozen, as the witcher kisses him so _desperately_ , holding his face so tenderly and yet like he never wants to let go. Geralt’s mind is a jumble of emotion - confusion at why exactly this witcher, who Geralt doesn’t recognise and yet seems so familiar, is kissing him so passionately, clashing against something warm igniting in his chest, along with an inexplicable urge to kiss back. 

Why - 

When the witcher realises Geralt hasn’t reacted, he pulls away, confusion creasing his brows. “Geralt.” And gods, the way the witcher says his name - so sweetly, so filled with love - it’s so familiar, and Geralt _should know who he is_. “Geralt, are you alright?”

Geralt blinks at him, not quite caught up with what just happened. The witcher had _kissed him_ \- is this universe’s Geralt in a relationship with this witcher? Who _is_ this witcher?

When Geralt doesn’t respond, the witcher stares at him before narrowing his eyes, and then Geralt is being slammed into the wall, pinned in place by an impossibly strong arm, and there’s a dagger at his throat, the deadly blade pressed close to his skin, a hair's breadth away from drawing blood. 

“You’re not Geralt,” the witcher snarls, the tenderness in his eyes replaced by something cold and hard and suspicious. “Who the fuck are you.”

“Let him _go!_ ” Ciri cries, and Geralt cuts his gaze to the side to see her drawing her sword, but before she can take a step, she’s suddenly frozen in place.

“Who are you?” Tissaia cuts in, chaos heavy in the air as her magic battles against Ciri’s. She glanced between Geralt and Ciri, her expression sharpening into a cold, threatening glare. “What do you want?”

“I’m Geralt,” Geralt tries to say, as much as he can underneath the blade that’s still pressed to his throat, and the witcher lets out a guttural snarl.

The witcher scoffs. “No, you’re _not_.” The dagger cuts just a little into Geralt’s skin, and Geralt keeps his breaths as shallow as he can, feeling a small stream of blood well out. “ _Who are you?_ ”

“Let me go, and I can explain,” Geralt says, careful not to move too much, and the witcher’s eyes flash. 

“Explain,” he snaps, withdrawing the dagger just enough for Geralt to breathe and talk without worrying that his throat will accidentally be slit, but he doesn’t lift the arm pinning Geralt to the wall. “Now.”

“I’m from another universe,” Geralt says in a rush, and when the witcher stares at him with uncomprehending eyes, he explains, “I _am_ Geralt, I’m just… not your Geralt. I’m from another world.”

There’s a pause as the witcher examines his face, looking for any hint of a lie, and Geralt keeps his expression open and honest. Clearly, this witcher doesn’t trust him, and Geralt can’t blame him - he would’ve done the same.

Tissaia clears her throat. “Julian, let him go.” The witcher - Julian turns and shoots her an incredulous look, but she continues, “He’s telling the truth - he and the girl’s magical signatures are not of this world, but he is indeed Geralt.” When Julian doesn’t budge, glaring at Geralt, Tissaia repeats, “Let him go.”

Slowly, Julian lowers his dagger and takes a step back from Geralt, and Geralt feels the chaos in the air fade away as Tissaia lets go of the hold of her magic on Ciri, who rushes to Geralt’s side. 

_Julian_ , Tissaia had called the witcher, and as Geralt stares a little more at Julian, something clicks into place in his mind.

Jaskier doesn’t go by Julian, Geralt knows, because he doesn’t quite want to be associated with being Julian Alfred Pankratz, the Viscount of Lettenhove, but Geralt knows that it’s his given name, and realisation dawns slowly on him. Geralt takes Julian in, looks past the silver hair and golden eyes and numerous scars and darker skin, and he recognises the slope of that nose and the line of that jaw, recognises those cheekbones and those lips and the shape of those eyes, golden as they are now, recognises them from decades of tracing those features with longing eyes and occasionally with gentle hands, from years and years spent together, and Geralt _knows_.

“Jaskier?” he whispers, and Julian - no, _Jaskier_ , he’s this universe’s Jaskier - blinks at him, mouth flattening into a thin line. Beside him, Ciri sucks in a sharp breath.

“So.” Jaskier regards him warily, hand still wrapped around the hilt of his dagger. Gods, he’s so cautious, so wary, so unlike Geralt’s own Jaskier, who’s carefree and open and trusts so easily. Geralt thinks of all the Jaskiers he’s met who are witchers, and his heart aches for them, aches for the way the Trials and the Path must have worn away at them, hardening them against the world. “You’re Geralt, but not from here, huh?”

“Yes,” Geralt confirms, and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut for a brief second, letting out a shaky exhale as he drags a hand over his face. 

“Right,” Jaskier whispers, something soft and pained in his voice, and Geralt wonders what happened, recalling the earlier conversation he’d overheard. Jaskier turns his head towards Ciri, brows furrowed. “And you are?”

“I don’t know if you’ve met me in this universe, but I’m Ciri,” Ciri says, and Jaskier’s eyes widen as he looks over her with fresh recognition in his eyes.

“Ciri?” Jaskier murmurs, that same pain creeping into his voice, and he takes a step towards her. “You’re - you’re _older_ \- but how?”

“Our universe is a couple years ahead of yours,” Ciri replies, and Jaskier nods, jaw clenched tight. He’s trying to hide it, but Geralt can see the pain in his pinched expression, can see the fatigue and worry and grief warring in his eyes, and though this isn’t _his_ Jaskier, Geralt itches to soothe him, to chase the pain from his face. 

“How is that possible?” Vesemir asks, staring at them in confusion and wonder. “I never thought…”

“Stregobor was doing… experiments,” Ciri explains wearily. At the mention of Stregobor, their faces all harden, and well, it seems that Stregobor being a horrible, despicable person is consistent across universes. “There was a - a monster, and I tried to portal us out, but Jaskier got caught in the middle of one of my portals.”

“Oh,” Tissaia murmurs under her breath in horrified realisation. “It sent him through different universes?”

Ciri nods. “We’re trying to follow him, and find him. But he - he’s not here, is he?”

The despair in her voice mirrors the despair in Geralt’s heart, hopelessness at not being able to find Jaskier, at not even being able to get _close_ to him after all these universes, at seeing different versions of Jaskier who are so similar but just _aren’t right_ , and the longer they go without finding Jaskier, the deeper the yawning ache in Geralt becomes. 

He misses Jaskier so goddamn much. He just - he wants peace, he wants to return to the Path with Jaskier, wants to spend quiet nights by the campfire, with Jaskier humming as Geralt sharpens his swords, wants to feel Jaskier’s warm body pressed against his, wants to feel Jaskier’s gentle hands washing his hair, and he wants _Jaskier_. 

But he isn’t here, and Geralt doesn’t know when he’ll even be able to find him. 

“No,” Tissaia says gently, sensing the sudden despair in Geralt and Ciri. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I just - we just need to stay here for a bit, so that I can regain my energy before we resume our search.” Ciri rubs a hand over her eyes, exhaustion evident in every movement. “I don’t suppose you have some place for us to stay and recover?”

Jaskier, Vesemir, and Tissaia exchange a glance, and Geralt wonders what the relationship between them is - there’s so much familiarity in the way they look at one another, familiarity that can only be borne of decades of knowing each other. 

They seem to be communicating through their eyes, and when Vesemir gives a slight nod, Jaskier breaks the gaze, turning to look between Geralt and Ciri. “I’m afraid we are rather… preoccupied at the moment,” he says, mouth twisting downwards. “I - we’re looking for - Ciri, Geralt, and Yen have been taken.”

That explains the pain in Jaskier’s eyes, why he’d launched himself at Geralt with such frenzied desperation, why he’d looked at Geralt and Ciri like he couldn’t quite believe they were here, and though this universe isn’t _his_ , though his Ciri is right next to him, Geralt feels unreasonably protective over the fact that Ciri has been _taken_ , that she’s in danger.

“Oh,” Ciri murmurs, eyes wide and stricken. Geralt watches as she swallows, undoubtedly thinking of the danger she’d been in when she was younger, when Nilfgaard had pursued her single-mindedly and she’d been in danger wherever she went. “Are you -”

“We’ve found out where they’ve been taken.” Jaskier rakes a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the lines of his face. “And I’ve been saying that we should go find them _now_ , the longer they stay there, the longer they could be - they could -”

“We need to bide our time, Julian,” Tissaia says tiredly, and Geralt realises that they must have cycled back to the conversation he had overheard before they’d revealed themselves. “We cannot just rush in without a plan.”

“Tissaia is right,” Vesemir interjects, placing a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. Seeing Jaskier so devastated makes Geralt want to reach out, to soothe him, but the silver hair and golden eyes remind him that this isn’t his Jaskier, that this isn’t his place. “We need to recuperate, think about how we will rescue them. Nilfgaard undeniably have them guarded strongly, so we need to be careful, or we’ll end up being taken, too.”

Jaskier closes his eyes, exhaling long and deep, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “I know - fuck, I _know_ you’re right, I just - they’re in _danger_ , and we’re just here, and I can’t - I can’t -”

Unable to help himself, unable to stand seeing Jaskier in distress, Geralt takes a step forward, closer to Jaskier. “We can help,” he offers, and Jaskier’s eyes, filled with so much worry and devastation and anger swimming in his eyes, snap up to meet his. “We’re here, after all, and both of us can fight.”

“I’m happy to help,” Ciri agrees, and Jaskier turns to look at her, taking in the sword on her back, and his lips tilt up in a sad, tired smile.

“You’ve been trained well, haven’t you?” he murmurs, low and melancholic. “Well, I suppose we can - wait. For a while.”

Tissaia smiles at them, somehow looking calm and composed even though there’s something harried and strained twisting the edges of her mouth. “I need to gather my chaos, make sure I have enough power to help. Nilfgaard will undoubtedly have dimeritium, and for them to be able to overwhelm Yennefer _and_ Geralt… we need to be as prepared as we can.”

“They won’t be expecting us,” Ciri says, looking contemplative. “That might give us an edge.”

Vesemir hums in agreement. “That is true. I assume that you’ve been fully trained?”

“Yes,” Ciri confirms. “If our universes are anything alike, then at this point in time, Nilfgaard only has an idea of what I’m capable of, so they shouldn’t be expecting me at all.” 

“That will help us. Am I right to say that your chaos must be rather drained right now?” Tissaia directs the question to Ciri, who nods in affirmation, and Tissaia continues, “Well, we can rest for the night while Ciri and I gather our chaos, and we can formulate a plan.”

“ _Rest for the night?_ ” Jaskier exclaims, and Geralt settles a calming hand on Jaskier’s arm. Jaskier pauses, eyes softening for a brief moment as he looks at Geralt, before seeming to realise that Geralt isn’t _his_. “We can’t leave them there _that_ long!”

“I’m certain that Nilfgaard won’t harm them,” Geralt reassures, hating the devastation in Jaskier’s eyes. “They want Ciri alive, and they know the potential havoc she could wreak if Yen and the other Geralt are harmed. They won’t risk it.”

“But I…” Jaskier trails off, jaw clenched tight, shoulders tense. 

“It will be better if we wait,” Geralt states, and when Jaskier leans into his touch, Geralt pulls him into an embrace on instinct, his body so attuned to Jaskier even in a different universe, and Jaskier stiffens for a moment before he seems to crumple, dropping his head onto Geralt’s shoulder. 

“I hate leaving them there.” His voice shakes, and Geralt runs a soothing hand over his back. This isn’t his Jaskier, but it tears at him to see any Jaskier in distress, tears at the part of his heart that belongs to Jaskier. “I just - gods, it’s _my_ fault that they’ve been taken, I should’ve _been there_ -”

“There was nothing you could’ve done, Julian,” Vesemir says, voice steady. “You couldn’t have known, and even if you were there - they overpowered both Geralt _and_ Yennefer. You might have dragged out the fight, but they likely would’ve taken you too, and where would we be now?”

“But I could have _helped_ ,” Jaskier insists, raising his head from Geralt’s shoulders but not leaving the embrace. There’s so much anguish in his voice, so much pain and devastation, and though this Jaskier feels so different in his arms, his body hardened from the Trials and the Path, Geralt still holds him closer, wraps him tightly in his embrace, aching to reassure Jaskier, to soothe his worries and wash the pain from his voice.

“I could’ve _helped_ ,” Jaskier repeats, voice breaking on the last word. “I _should have been there_.”

“It’s not your fault,” Geralt murmurs, reaching up to stroke his hand through Jaskier’s hair in an attempt to reassure him, and startles for a moment at the sight of long silver hair tangled between his fingers. “I know I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

“Neither would I,” Ciri chimes in. “You couldn’t have known.”

“I just -” Jaskier fists his hands in Geralt’s shirt, and Geralt lets him, lets him take what comfort he can - he may not be this Jaskier’s Geralt, but he can at least try to soothe Jaskier any way he can. “I was - I should’ve -”

“It’s not your fault,” Geralt repeats, knowing that it’s what Jaskier needs to hear, and Jaskier lets out a shuddering breath, his hands quivering, before he steps out of Geralt’s embrace, visibly composing himself. 

“We need to rest for the night,” Tissaia reiterates. She steps over to Jaskier, letting her touch linger reassuringly on his shoulder for a moment, then chaos hums in the air and a portal appears. “Don’t worry, I haven’t expended my energy too much making this portal - this takes us to a safehouse not too far from here, so we can recuperate and plan.”

“Thank you, Tissaia,” Jaskier murmurs, and she smiles at him softly. 

“We’ll get them back, Julian. I promise.”

They step through the portal, and gods, Geralt is getting rather tired of portals now. He wants to find Jaskier and get all of this over with as soon as possible, and he can return to the Path with his family at his side, return to a portal-free life on the road. They emerge in a small, cozy house, furnished sparsely but just enough to look homely, and Geralt surveys his surroundings, feeling the slight thrum of chaos in the air that indicates the presence of protection spells and wards. 

“I will find us dinner,” Tissaia says, motioning for Vesemir to come to her. “Julian, will you show our guests their rooms? There should be enough for all of us.”

Jaskier nods, looking exhausted. “Sure. Follow me.” He jerks his chin at Geralt and Ciri, and heads towards the stairs, Geralt and Ciri following behind him. 

“Tissaia keeps calling you Julian,” Ciri observes as they head up the stairs, and Jaskier hums in affirmation. “Do you - is that what you prefer to be called?”

Geralt tries not to think about his own Jaskier, how he’d hated being called Julian, hated how it reminded him of his family. His own Jaskier had always insisted on being called Jaskier, and never Julian - Geralt wonders what’s different for this Jaskier. 

“You can call me Jaskier, if you want,” Jaskier says, leading them down the hallway. “I usually go by Julian, but - you two can call me Jaskier.”

“Our Jaskier doesn’t like being called Julian,” Geralt blurts, unable to keep the longing from his voice. 

Jaskier huffs out a raspy laugh. “I get that. Back when I was still Jaskier, I hated being called Julian too.”

He stops by two sets of doors. “Well, these are your rooms. I assume you want separate rooms, or would you rather -”

“What do you mean?” Geralt interjects, trying to wrap his mind around what Jaskier had said earlier. _Back when I was still Jaskier_. But that doesn’t make sense - Jaskier had admitted to being Jaskier, and even though he’s a witcher, Geralt _knows_ that it’s him, knows him deep in his heart, because he would know Jaskier anywhere, no matter what universe. “You said, ‘back when I was still Jaskier’, but aren’t you -”

Jaskier sighs. “It’s a long story.” He unlocks the doors for them, gesturing for them to enter. Neither of them do, staring at Jaskier, and he runs his hand over his face. “I can explain, if you want. Let’s not do this in the hallway.”

He heads into one of the rooms, and sits himself on the bed, setting his swords to one side. Geralt sits by his side, and Ciri perches on the chair in the corner, both of them looking expectantly at Jaskier.

“Right. So…” Jaskier takes a deep breath, something sad in his eyes. “I’ve always been a witcher, and I’m from the Manticore school. I got tired of the Path, so I asked Tissaia to give me a human life, where I would be in a completely different body with none of my memories. So that was my life as Jaskier, and I grew up as a human, then spent two decades with Geralt. I… was this the same for your Jaskier?”

“He’s spent more than two decades with me at this point,” Geralt responds, mind jumping to the event that had happened roughly two decades after they’d started travelling together, and his heart squeezes at the memory of the mountain - _if life could give me one blessing_ \- “But he did travel with me for two decades until we took a small break, after…”

Jaskier’s smile is sad and knowing. “The dragon hunt?”

Geralt nods, remembering the way Yennefer had glared at him, betrayal and anger battling in her eyes, remembering the wind whipping at his hair as he’d growled at Jaskier, remembering the heavy, sour scent of hurt that had hung in the air long after Jaskier had gone. It’s been years, now, and Jaskier has long forgiven him, but the memory still makes part of Geralt churn with guilt, with regret. 

“Yeah, well, after that… I died,” Jaskier says bluntly, and Geralt flinches back as if struck. The thought of Jaskier _dying_ -

“What?” Ciri’s voice is a low, broken whisper.

Jaskier is _alive_ , Geralt reminds himself desperately. He knows this, because they’re still chasing after him - if he were dead, there would be nothing to pursue. Jaskier is _alive_ , but even the thought of him dying, the thought of Geralt losing him - 

Jaskier - no, not his Jaskier, but the witcher, who has golden cat eyes and silver hair and scars - curls an arm around Geralt’s shoulders, and though Geralt can’t help but think that this isn’t _his_ Jaskier, he leans into the touch gratefully. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier murmurs, tone becoming more gentle, clearly realising the impact his words have had on Geralt and Ciri. “I shouldn’t have - your Jaskier is fine, I promise. He’s strong and resilient, even if he is human. He’ll come back to you.”

“He’d better.” Ciri’s voice is shaky, and Geralt beckons her over, raising his arm. She heads towards him and tucks herself under his arm, and Geralt pulls her close to him, Jaskier on his left and Ciri on his right. It’s not - he misses his own Jaskier, misses him with a visceral ache, but Geralt breathes in, takes comfort in the warmth of the two bodies pressed against him, even if this Jaskier isn’t his.

“And clearly, I didn’t actually die,” Jaskier continues, sensing the sudden heaviness in the air. “It brought me back to my actual body - well, _this_ body. Which is why I said that I’m not really Jaskier anymore. I have his memories, I lived his life, but - it’s complicated.”

“I understand,” Geralt says, head spinning. Magic strong enough to give a witcher a human life in a human body, strong enough to return them to being a witcher afterwards, and for a moment, Geralt wonders if he could -

No.

“So… that was my story,” Jaskier concludes, smiling tiredly. “Your Jaskier is human?”

“Well, he could be under that same spell you were under, and I wouldn’t know,” Geralt tries to joke, and Jaskier chuckles.

“Oh, I can’t imagine our Jaskier as a witcher,” Ciri laughs, shaking her head. “I mean, we’ve met quite a few Jaskiers who are witchers, but I just - I can’t imagine _our_ Jaskier being a witcher.”

“Are there quite a lot of Jaskiers like me out there?” Jaskier questions. He pulls his arm away from where it’d been wrapped around Geralt, but doesn’t stop leaning on him. “I’m curious - what versions of me have you seen?”

“Quite a lot,” Geralt answers, thinking of all the variations of his bard that he’s met. “A river god, a druid, a few humans, a female version of you -”

“That was shocking,” Ciri interrupts, leaning her head on Geralt’s shoulder as she swings her legs. “She was delightful, though.”

“It’s me, I’m always delightful,” Jaskier mumbles under his breath.

Rolling his eyes slightly, Geralt continues, “A druid, and like I said earlier, quite a few witchers, though you’re the only one with extra mutations.” He glances at Jaskier, whose face has gone strained, and suddenly regrets bringing it up.

“Ah, well, lucky me,” Jaskier mutters, mouth twisting in a bitter smile. Geralt stares at the silver of his hair, and he remembers the pain of the extra Trials, how he’d screamed and writhed and thrashed, how the utter agony seemed to go on forever, and gods, he wouldn’t wish it on anyone, least of all Jaskier, and to think that this Jaskier has gone through extra mutations, like him - it makes Geralt’s chest hurt for how much pain Jaskier has endured.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt presses against Jaskier’s shoulder, and Jaskier looks away. “It’s horrible, isn’t it?”

“It really is,” Jaskier rasps out. “I’m glad your Jaskier is human. Being human - it’s so much better. So much easier.”

There’s far too much understanding in Jaskier’s voice - he’s lived through the Trials, like Geralt, but he’s also lived through a human life. He is a witcher, but he was a human, and Geralt can’t even begin to imagine how _hard_ it must be for Jaskier, to have two lives entangling in his mind, to know that he will never get his human life back. 

The question spills out unexpectedly from Geralt’s lips. “Do you… miss it?” Jaskier’s face shutters, and Geralt immediately regrets asking it. It can’t be easy for him, being pulled away from his human life to return to being a witcher. “I mean - I shouldn’t have asked that. I’m sorry.”

“I - it’s...” Jaskier swallows heavily, his body a stiff line of tension against Geralt’s side.

“No - I didn’t -” Geralt stammers, hating himself for bringing it up, for causing Jaskier further pain. “I wasn’t…”

“I do,” Jaskier breathes out, barely audible, and Geralt lets go of Ciri to turn and look at Jaskier, helpless to do anything but reach out to him at the sheer anguish in his voice, cupping his face in his palm and tracing his thumb over jagged scars. “I wish I could go back - it would be so much better for my Geralt if I were still Jaskier. I… I’m glad your Jaskier is human, I wish -”

He cuts himself off, trying to withdraw from Geralt’s touch, but Geralt doesn’t let him go, bringing his hand to tangle in Jaskier’s long silver hair. 

“I’m sure your Geralt loves you the way you are,” Geralt says firmly, tone full of conviction. He knows he would accept his own Jaskier any way he is, any way he chooses to be, and if this universe’s Geralt is anything like him, Geralt is certain that he feels the same. “Human or witcher - it’s _you_ , and he wouldn’t have you any other way than how you are.”

Jaskier’s golden eyes are brittle, and he smiles thinly at Geralt. “I know he loves me. I love him too. But I - I can’t help but think… well, it would be better if I were human, unscarred, untainted by the Trials, by the Path. I _am_ glad that your Jaskier is human.” He lets out a rough laugh. “Gods, I just met you - you’re not even my Geralt - and I’m telling you all this.”

“It’s because I’m Geralt, but not yours,” Geralt murmurs, running his hand through Jaskier’s hair in an attempt to soothe him. It’s soft and silky under his fingers. “I’ve told many things to different Jaskiers as well. It’s… easier, somehow. And I promise - your Geralt loves you, scars and all. He loves you because of it, not in spite of it.”

Jaskier barks out a laugh, harsh and grating. “Gods know why,” he mutters, and Geralt opens his mouth to reply, but Jaskier barrels on. “I - I’m nothing like the Jaskier he used to travel with - I’m a witcher, I’m scarred and inhuman, and for gods’ sake, I can’t even _sing_ to him anymore -” Next to Geralt, Ciri sucks in a sharp, pained breath, and Geralt feels his heart constrict at the words, at the thought of a Jaskier _who can’t sing_. “Why does he - how can he even -”

Jaskier breaks off, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes as he breathes harshly, chest heaving, and Geralt holds him close, feeling something wet tickle the corners of his eyes. 

“You can’t - you can’t _sing_?” Ciri breathes out, her voice utterly devastated, and slaps a hand over her mouth, looking horrified at what she’d said. The flinch that Jaskier lets out is almost imperceptible, but Geralt feels the way Jaskier’s body tenses under his hands. “Shit, I’m so sorry, I -”

“I can’t,” Jaskier confirms, mouth twisting bitterly, and Geralt longs to wash that bitterness off his face, longs to replace it with bright joy, but he can’t, he can’t. “The Trials, they…”

He raises a hand to his throat, before dropping it back into his lap, and Geralt hates that he knows what exactly Jaskier is talking about, hates that he knows why Jaskier’s voice is so raspy, so unlike the smooth, melodious voice of his own Jaskier. He remembers the Trials, remembers the way screams had torn out of his throat, damaging his voice irreparably, and he looks in dawning horror at this Jaskier, who’d lived decades as a bard with the most lovely voice, only to be returned to a body with a throat utterly destroyed by the Trials. 

Geralt crushes Jaskier into a hug, and feels the way Jaskier lets out a shaky, shuddering breath that sounds suspiciously wet. Jaskier clings to him, burying his face against Geralt’s shoulder, and Geralt whispers into the tangle of Jaskier’s hair, “I’m sorry. That’s awful - I can’t imagine…”

“I’ve accepted it,” Jaskier says in a tone that indicates he very much has _not_ accepted it. “It is how it is.”

Geralt runs his fingers through the length of Jaskier’s hair once more. “I know that your Geralt won’t stop loving you because you can’t - can’t -” he chokes on the word, unable to say it, unable to stand the pain of truly acknowledging that Jaskier has lost his voice, his music, something so precious to him, something embedded deep into his soul. “He won’t stop loving you because of your scars - they’re a sign of your strength. They’re beautiful. And he loves you as you are.”

It’s true. The scars are unfamiliar, but they don’t take away from the beauty of Jaskier’s face, the proud slope of his nose and the sharp line of his jaw. Jaskier is always beautiful, in any universe, and Geralt has no doubt that this Jaskier’s Geralt feels the same. He has no doubt that this Geralt accepts Jaskier for who he is, and loves him because of it. 

Jaskier hums, and Geralt pulls back to look straight in those golden eyes. He can’t tell this to his Jaskier - they’re universes apart, but Geralt can at least make this Jaskier feel better about his own Geralt’s love for him. “I may not be him,” Geralt tells Jaskier softly, imploring Jaskier to believe him. “But I know this.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier whispers, sinking into Geralt’s touch. He gently pulls Geralt’s hand from his hair, and Geralt notes absently the way Jaskier’s hands are calloused from the grips of his swords, and a sudden longing for lute callouses pierces through him. Visibly gathering his composure, Jaskier stands up, giving them a small, tight smile. “I’ll leave you to it. See you at dinner.”

“I -” Geralt starts, seeing the lack of conviction in Jaskier’s eyes and needing Jaskier to _understand_ , but Jaskier has already turned his back on him, picking up his swords on the way to the door. 

“He hurts so much,” Ciri whispers after Jaskier has shut the door behind him, low enough that Jaskier won’t hear it with his enhanced senses. “The look in his eyes…”

Geralt exhales. “I know.”

There had been so much torment in those golden eyes, decades or even centuries of trauma, of insecurity and fear of rejection, all of that torment coming up against having lived a joyous human life and the pain of knowing that he will never live it again, and Geralt hurts for him, hurts for how much he’s gone through, hurts for the loss of the part of his soul that sings bright and clear to the world. 

Jaskier losing the song in his soul, the music in his heart - Geralt’s chest constricts painfully at the thought. 

“Right,” Ciri mutters, getting up from the bed. “We should rest a bit before dinner - it’s been a long day. I’ll take the other room.”

She heads to the door and disappears into the room next to his, and Geralt sighs, looking down at his filthy clothing, still dirty from the time he’d spent in Brokilon in the previous universe. But he knows how mages work, has known Yennefer long enough to know that there will definitely be clothes in the closet, clothes that miraculously fit him, and sure enough, when he wanders over to the closet, he finds several shirts and trousers lined up, all in black.

Quickly wetting a washcloth in the bathroom, Geralt strips and wipes himself down briefly before putting on the new clothes, and sighs in relief when that filthy smell stops clinging to him. He glances out the window and sees the telltale shimmer of wards, and his medallion hums slightly when he nears the window, a sign of how strong the wards are. 

The smell of food reaches his nose, and his mouth waters. Universe hopping is taking quite a lot out of him - he needs to eat far more than usual, and he eagerly heads downstairs. When he’s halfway down the hall, a door opens and Jaskier steps out, locking eyes briefly with Geralt.

“Dinner?” Jaskier asks awkwardly, inclining his head towards the stairs. He looks more refreshed than earlier, though worry and grief still line his eyes, and his hair is slightly messy, parts of it sticking up like he’s been running his hands through it. 

“Yeah,” Geralt mumbles, and Jaskier nods, shuffling his feet before heading down the hallway. Geralt walks behind him, and they head down the stairs to be greeted with a feast laid out on the simple dining table. After so many universes, after so much turmoil and conflict and unpredictability, the sight of such delicacies makes Geralt’s mouth water.

“Oh, Tissaia,” Jaskier sighs in pleasure, scanning his eyes over the food. “I do love your magic.”

Tissaia quirks a brow at him playfully. “You will love whatever gets you food, Julian,” she teases gently, and Vesemir chuckles. 

“He has a point, you do get us excellent food whenever we’re together,” Vesemir comments, and Jaskier grins at him, pulling out one of the chairs and lounging casually in it. After hovering around for a few moments, hands fluttering, Geralt sits down next to Jaskier, who tilts his head to glance at him.

“Where’s Ciri?”

“She should be down soon,” Geralt answers, and sure enough, Ciri appears from the stairs, eyes going wide and pleased at the sight of the food laid out before her.

“I smelled food, so I came down,” she declares, plopping down next to Geralt and gazing at the food. “Oh wow, this looks delicious. How did you get - oh. Magic.”

“It is rather useful,” Tissaia says, waving a hand. “Go on and help yourselves.”

With a whoop of delight, Ciri digs in, and Geralt watches her fondly for a few moments, watches her stuff her face with delicious food, all etiquette and decorum forgotten, before he starts to eat. The food is delicious, though that should be expected - Tissaia is one of the most powerful mages on the Continent, after all, and Geralt expects nothing less. 

The dinner is spent in silence as everyone eats their fill - Geralt is fairly sure that they’ve all had a long, exhausting day, and none of them are quite in the mood for casual conversation. When they’re done, leaning back in their chairs with full bellies, Tissaia waves a hand and the dishes vanish.

“So,” she says, looking around at them all. “Nilfgaard.”

The atmosphere grows solemn and serious as everyone leans forward, and Jaskier’s face changes into a mask of grim determination.

“I traced the magical signature,” Tissaia says, crossing her arms. “They have been taken to a Nilfgaardian stronghold not too far from here.”

Vesemir leans forward, eyes calculating. “How well-guarded is it?”

“Fairly well, but I doubt they are prepared for all five of us.” Tissaia casts a glance around the table and twirls her finger, and a projection of the stronghold appears on the middle of the table. “From what I can tell, the guards stationed there are mostly human, and I can only detect two mages.”

“We can deal with the mages, then,” Ciri murmurs, studying the image before her. “Unless Fringilla…?”

“I have sent Triss to keep track of Fringilla’s whereabouts,” Tissaia responds. “She is nowhere near the stronghold, and if she does happen to approach it, Triss will hold her back until we can rescue everyone.”

“So we portal in?” Jaskier asks, fingers drumming anxiously on the table. His gaze roams over the image, his mouth a thin line. “Can we just portal inside, rescue them, and get out without being noticed?”

Tissaia shakes her head. “There are wards - weak ones, but enough to prevent us from portalling in. We will have to portal outside, and fight our way in. Once we are in, I can locate where Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri are.”

“They must have dimeritium, or else Yen would have busted them out by now,” Geralt muses, and Tissaia nods in confirmation. “So they will be weakened when we find them.”

“Hopefully not so much that they can’t fight a bit,” Vesemir says. He’s tapping a finger on his chin, looking thoughtful. “We will need to fight our way out.”

Letting out a contemplative hum, Tissaia murmurs, “Perhaps, but if I have enough time, I may be able to break the wards from within, and then we can use a portal. That may be easier than fighting our way out.”

“So one of us needs to stay with you.” Vesemir glances at Tissaia, then at Ciri. “We witchers can probably take on the mages, but it’ll be easier if we deal with the guards, and both of you deal with the mages. I can stay with Tissaia.”

“I’m going after Geralt and Ciri and Yen,” Jaskier says firmly, leaving no room for argument. No one disagrees with him - there’s a desperation in his eyes, raging alongside burning fury and protectiveness, and Geralt almost pities the Nilfgaardian guards who will be in the way of Jaskier’s warpath tomorrow. “Someone can come with me and cover me while I free them.”

“I will,” Geralt volunteers, unable to help the part of him that urges him to protect Jaskier, to keep him safe and far away from harm, and Jaskier shoots him a grateful glance.

He _knows_ that this Jaskier can take care of himself - he’s a witcher, after all - but that protective instinct within Geralt is decades old, and though he would rather keep Jaskier far away from the conflict, one look at those golden eyes and those scars reminds him that this Jaskier is more than capable of holding his own. But Geralt can’t bear to let Jaskier charge headfirst into danger without being able to watch his back - if he can’t keep Jaskier away, Geralt can at least stay with him.

“I’ll take one of the mages, then go wherever is needed,” Ciri says, and Tissaia gives her a sharp nod. 

They fall into solemn silence, and Vesemir clears his throat. “We have a plan, then.” When Tissaia dips her head in a nod, he stands up, chair scraping back. “Right. I believe we all need to rest well for tomorrow. We leave at first light.”

A murmur of agreement goes around the table as everyone gets up to leave, Jaskier disappearing faster than anyone else, and Geralt gets up, heading for his room. He exchanges a small smile with Ciri before they disappear into their respective rooms, and Geralt removes his armour with slow, methodical movements, then flops onto the bed, a tired ache that goes deep into his bones.

Gods, how many universes has this been?

He’s so _tired_. Everything has been - there’s been so _much_ going on, and even though some of the universes he’s been to are peaceful and quiet, jumping through universes drains him, and with every universe where he doesn’t find Jaskier, he feels like he’s being dragged down just a little more. 

And _this_ universe…

Jaskier had kissed him, passionate and desperate, so much love poured into a single action, and when Geralt closes his eyes, he can almost feel Jaskier’s lips on his, can pretend that it’s _his_ Jaskier - but it’s not, he reminds himself. This Jaskier - he has his own Geralt, who he loves, and Geralt…

He longs and yearns for something so far away that it’s impossible for him to reach, and it gnaws at him that Jaskier is so distant, so unreachable. It’s lonely, so maddeningly lonely, and Geralt curls into himself, hating how cold it is, hating the lack of a familiar presence pressing against him, soft hair tickling his nose, gentle whuffs of breath against his skin. The phantom sensation of that kiss flutters on his lips, mocks him for being alone, for not being to hold Jaskier in his arms, and Geralt twists and turns, the emptiness of the too-big bed horribly foreign.

It’s too cold. It’s too lonely. Geralt doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep, kept awake by the torment of that phantom kiss, of the distinct lack of warmth pressing against him, but there’s a bone-deep tiredness within him that finally drags him into the realm of cold, uneasy sleep.

* * *

Geralt awakes to the putrid scent of fear and the sound of a hoarse cry filled with devastation, and he blinks blearily, trying to register what’s happening. 

Then another cry rings out, and before Geralt’s mind can catch up to his actions, he’s clambering out of bed on instinct, stumbling over to Jaskier’s room to soothe him, to shush his cries and hold him close. It’s instinct, now - Jaskier has nightmares, sometimes, and whenever he does, Geralt seeks him out and curls up against him, which never fails to calm Jaskier, bringing him down from his nightmare until his breathing evens out and his body loses its tension.

It’s in the middle of the night, and Geralt can barely remember that this Jaskier isn’t _his_ , only knowing that Jaskier is crying out, voice filled with pain and anguish and fear, and Geralt needs to be by his side, needs to bring him close, needs to soothe him and calm him and reassure him. He follows the sound of Jaskier’s cries and stumbles into a room, heart breaking when he catches sight of Jaskier thrashing on the bed, face twisted and pained as he grasps at nothing.

“No,” Jaskier whimpers, and Geralt rushes over to him, ignoring the signs that this Jaskier isn’t _his_ , ignoring the silver hair and jagged scars that remind him that this Jaskier is a witcher, because this is still _Jaskier_ , and he’s having a nightmare, and Geralt needs to _help him_. “No, please, no, please don’t hurt him, _Geralt!_ ”

At the sound of his name, Geralt can do nothing but climb in next to Jaskier, wrapping his arms around him, hearing the way Jaskier’s heart beats rabbit-quick against his chest. “I’m here,” Geralt whispers, feeling how Jaskier’s breathing heaves heavily against his shoulder, and he runs a gentle hand through Jaskier’s long hair, fingers tangling in the messy waves. “Shh, I’m here, Jaskier, I’m here.”

Jaskier lets out something between a whimper and a sob, and Geralt holds him closer, heart aching and aching at the pain in Jaskier’s voice, the sheer devastation in his cries. It doesn’t matter that this isn’t his Jaskier - he’s in pain, he’s hurt, and Geralt can’t _bear_ to see that, can’t bear to see any version of Jaskier hurting and fearful. 

He holds Jaskier in his arms, holds him until his cries and whimpers taper off into shaky breaths, holds him until he stops thrashing and his body becomes still, until the tremors fade away and his breathing evens out and his heartbeat slows from frantic to steady. 

Pressing his face into Jaskier’s hair, Geralt breathes in the familiar-unfamiliar scent, bringing Jaskier in closer with an arm around his waist, and Jaskier tenses for a moment before sinking into Geralt’s embrace, cold nose brushing against his neck. 

And Geralt is - he feels warm, Jaskier’s body pressed against his own, warm and familiar, the soft sound of Jaskier’s snuffling breaths filling the silence of the room, his long hair tickling the bare parts of Geralt’s skin. There’s something like guilt tugging at the edge of his mind, guilt that this isn’t his Jaskier, but Geralt pushes it away - Jaskier needs help, and no matter what universe he’s in, Geralt will do anything to help Jaskier.

It’s warm. It’s so warm. Geralt feels a bit less lonely like this, curled up against Jaskier, and he lets his eyes trace over Jaskier’s features, slackened in sleep, looking far less dangerous and threatening now that his face is relaxed and his eyes are closed. The scars are still there, faintly illuminated by the moonlight, but his features, those features that Geralt knows better than his own, are still so beautiful, and Geralt lets himself look, lets himself take in Jaskier’s slumbering face, and his chest twinges.

There’s still a slight furrow between Jaskier’s brows, and Geralt reaches out to run a thumb over it, smoothing it out, and Jaskier lets out a soft sigh, pressing closer. His heartbeat is slower than what Geralt is used to - the slowness of Jaskier’s heartbeat matches his own, and it’s to that slow, steady beat that he falls asleep once again, loneliness chased away as he’s surrounded by warmth.

* * *

He wakes up to a warm body in his arms, breathing soft and warm into the crook of his neck, and Geralt lets himself bask in the moment for a few seconds, relishing in the warmth of Jaskier’s body against him, even if the body isn’t the same one that he’s used to, even if the body is harder and broader. Ever since Stregobor, ever since that horrible monster, Geralt has laid awake on many lonely nights, cold and empty, aching for someone who isn't there.

A soft sigh, and chapped lips brush against Geralt’s jaw as Jaskier murmurs, “Mm, morning, dear heart.”

And Geralt freezes, because Jaskier clearly thinks he’s _his_ Geralt, and this moment is so unbearably tender, so impossibly sweet and domestic - it’s a moment that Geralt has longed for, has dreamed of, and gods, he wants this, misses this, wants to wake up in the warm circle of Jaskier’s arms, to curl around him and press closer and closer, to exchange kisses while the light of the morning sun spills into the room. 

But this is not his universe, and though Geralt wants to tilt his head down and capture those lips in his, he cannot - he isn’t Jaskier’s Geralt, and this isn’t his place. He stiffens, and those lips pause against his jaw, and -

There’s a dagger at his throat, and Geralt is pinned to the bed as Jaskier’s golden eyes bore into his.

“Why are you here.” Jaskier’s voice is raspy from sleep, even raspier than the night before, and his eyes flit over Geralt, realisation dawning in his expression as he blinks awake. His eyes dart over Geralt’s face, seemingly confirming that this isn’t _his_ Geralt, and grief flashes briefly over his face before he schools it into neutrality. “What are you _doing?_ ”

“You were having a nightmare,” Geralt says placatingly, keeping himself still. Where had the dagger even _come_ from? Geralt had held Jaskier all night, and he hadn’t felt any weapons on him. “I - I came here on instinct to calm you down. I’m sorry if I crossed a line.”

“I - it’s -” Jaskier withdraws the dagger, which disappears… _somewhere._ “I - thank you.”

“I couldn’t leave you like that,” Geralt murmurs, his hand reaching out for Jaskier, an instinct at seeing Jaskier so distressed. “Hearing you scream…”

“I’m thankful, but I - you’re not -” Jaskier eyes his hand, but Geralt doesn’t retract it, holding it out steadily, waiting for Jaskier to take it. “I shouldn’t have - my Geralt is still out there, and I -”

“I don’t think he would mind,” Geralt says, and Jaskier’s jaw tightens. “If he’s anything like me, I think he would rather that you slept well.”

Jaskier just stares at him for another moment, before taking Geralt’s proffered hand, and Geralt tugs at him gently. “We still have some time before we need to prepare,” Geralt says lowly, and Jaskier stiffens at the mention, clearly remembering what they need to do later that day. Unwilling to see him so tense, Geralt tugs at his hand again, and slowly, Jaskier lies down next to him. 

Geralt doesn’t have his Jaskier, and this Jaskier doesn’t have his Geralt. They can’t be the replacement for each other, but for now, Geralt slings an arm around Jaskier’s waist, bringing him closer, and Jaskier rests his face in Geralt’s neck, pressing their bodies together, and they breathe together, slow and steady, as they wait for the fight to arrive.

If Geralt closes his eyes, blocking out the long silver hair and the jagged scars, if he doesn’t think too hard about the slight unfamiliarity of Jaskier’s scent, if he ignores the way Jaskier’s body feels different in his arms, he can almost pretend that it’s his Jaskier pressed against him, pretend that it’s just another quiet, peaceful morning. 

But this isn’t his Jaskier, and it’s not another quiet morning. This is a universe unfamiliar to him, and in a short time, they will have to prepare to storm a Nilfgaardian stronghold, fighting for their lives. 

For now, though, for a few brief moments, Geralt lets himself pretend. He lets himself sink into Jaskier’s warmth, lets himself relax, lets himself think that this is _his_ Jaskier, and this is how they wake up every morning - wrapped in each other’s warmth, the air around them calm and peaceful, no danger looming over their heads. 

“We should get ready,” Jaskier whispers, breaking the tentative peace that had settled over them and startling Geralt back into reality, and he pulls back, meeting eyes as golden as his own. Jaskier untangles himself from Geralt, and Geralt aches at the loss of warmth, at the loss of tender touch. “Thank you for coming to me.”

“Anytime,” Geralt promises, and Jaskier smiles softly at him. They’re not who the other wants - the ones they want are out there, in danger, but right now, they’re all that the other has, and this gentle understanding passes between them as they gaze at each other for a moment before Jaskier looks away, shattering the moment.

Geralt looks at him for a moment, takes in the way his wavy silver hair spills over his shoulders, the way his golden eyes glow in the semi-darkness, takes in the familiar set of his jaw and the curve of his mouth, the familiar shape of his face marred by unfamiliar scars, his skin darker than Geralt’s own Jaskier. He’s beautiful, Geralt thinks, beautiful in a way Jaskier always is, no matter what universe he’s in, and Geralt lets his gaze linger for a moment before he heads for the door.

“See you in a bit,” he says softly, and Jaskier meets his eyes once again and nods.

“See you,” Jaskier responds, eyes becoming hard and determined as he stalks towards where his swords are laid out, and Geralt lingers for a bit longer, his gaze straying to the bed, where two shapes still remain printed on the sheets, two shapes wrapped around each other, and Geralt stares at it, stares at it and thinks about his Jaskier, missing him and missing him.

When he finds Jaskier, Geralt vows, he will never let him go. Geralt will hold him close, hold him tight, and never let him go. 

He leaves, shutting the door behind him and returning to his room. With deft hands, Geralt changes into his armour, pushing away the memories of how, sometimes, Jaskier had helped him into his armour, hands gentle and smile teasing. He can sink into his memories later - now, another Geralt needs him, another Ciri and Yen need him, another Jaskier needs him, and Geralt will not fail them the way he’d failed his own Jaskier. 

In the rooms around him, he can hear people moving around as they get ready, can hear the clatter of armour and the clang of blades, the rustle of clothes and the patter of feet. The air in the house is heavy, solemn, as they all prepare for a battle ahead.

Geralt steps out of his room at the same time Ciri leaves hers, decked out in full armour, blades sharpened and potions at the ready. Ciri nods at him, looking more refreshed than she had last night, the dark circles under her eyes gone, and already, chaos hums in the air around her, ready to bend to her every whim. 

“Sleep well?” he asks, and Ciri nods, fingering her pendant.

“Yes,” she responds, her eyes flicking towards Jaskier’s door, and she lowers her voice. “Last night… did you -?”

Geralt hesitates, and when she raises an eyebrow at him expectantly, Geralt nods. “Yeah, he was - I calmed him,” he whispers, low enough that even Jaskier’s enhanced hearing won’t catch it. “It wasn’t - yeah.”

“So not like last time,” Ciri mutters, eyeing him sceptically. “I swear to all the gods, when we find our Jaskier -”

“Yes, I know,” Geralt replies, ushering her down the hall towards the stairs, his heart twinging at the reminder of _our Jaskier, our Jaskier, our Jaskier_. “We didn’t - do anything. He was just…”

“I know,” Ciri murmurs, following him down the stairs. They settle themselves on the couch, waiting for the others to come down, and Geralt resists the urge to fidget anxiously. Ciri is right next to him, he knows, but this world’s Ciri, still young and untrained, has been _captured_ , and she’s in _danger_ , and Geralt needs - he needs -

“Did you two sleep well?” Vesemir’s gruff voice comes from the stairs, and Geralt jerks his head up to meet his mentor’s eyes, looking at him with familiar warmth and concern. “I know Julian...”

“We slept fine,” Geralt answers, wondering if Vesemir knows that Geralt went to Jaskier’s room last night. “Thank you for having us.”

Vesemir gives him a kind smile, and it’s so achingly familiar that Geralt almost thinks he’s back in Kaer Morhen with his family. “You may not be our Geralt, but you are still Geralt,” he says, walking over to lay a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “Though I _am_ sorry that you came to our universe while we are in such trouble. I apologise for inconveniencing you. Your… journeys mustn’t have been easy, and now we’re throwing you right back into the fight.”

“We’re happy to help,” Geralt says earnestly, and Ciri nods in agreement. “It seems that we arrived here just at the right time to help you.”

“Thank you,” Vesemir murmurs, suddenly looking very tired. “It’s been - I can’t believe that Nilfgaard… Julian has been a wreck.”

Geralt thinks of the pain that hasn’t left Jaskier’s eyes since Geralt had arrived, thinks of his cries and whimpers in the dead of night, thinks of the way Jaskier’s body had quivered against his. “His Geralt has been taken, along with Ciri and Yen. I would be the same if I were in his place.”

“He cares for all of them very much,” Vesemir says, sitting himself down on one of the chairs around the dining table. “To have them taken from him…”

They fall silent, and Geralt understands far too much what Jaskier is feeling. His own Jaskier is far from him, and back when Ciri was younger, he’s had far too many terrifying moments where he thought he would lose his family. 

He wants to help this Jaskier, if only to abate that seemingly endless pain in his eyes, to bring Jaskier back to his family - Geralt is still searching for his, but at the very least, he can reunite Jaskier with the ones he loves. 

Footsteps pad down the stairs, and Geralt looks up to see Jaskier descending, dark armour covering his body, two swords strapped to his back. He blinks, unused to seeing Jaskier in anything other than colourful shirts and doublets - the sight of Jaskier in armour is _jarring_ , and coupled with his hair and eyes and scars, he looks lethal and dangerous and deadly. 

He looks like a witcher. 

Jaskier’s mouth is set in a thin line, the pain and worry in his eyes hiding behind a wall of determination. Geralt can’t help but let his eyes wander briefly over how the armour hugs Jaskier’s strong body, how he has multiple knives and daggers strapped to his body, and it’s so _strange_ to see Jaskier cloaked in danger and yet so _right_ with this Jaskier, who’s a witcher, who’s scarred and hardened by the Path, who’s different from _his_ Jaskier but still Jaskier all the same.

Geralt has seen so many versions of Jaskier who are so different and yet the same, and it plays with his heart, plays with the tangled mess of his mind - he sees qualities of Jaskier that he loves, qualities that persist across different universes, and he sees how each Jaskier is changed by the circumstances of each universe, and yet part of him, the very core of him, still remains the same. 

This Jaskier is as caring as his own - he clearly cares for his own Geralt and Ciri and Yennefer deeply, clearly loves them and worries for their wellbeing. This Jaskier might be a witcher, might hold swords in his hands instead of a lute, might live amongst violence and blood instead of surrounded by music, but he’s fundamentally the same - kind and caring and loving, fiercely dedicated to his loved ones with unwavering devotion and loyalty, and always, always a good person.

Seeing this Jaskier decked out in armour, combined with his witcher features that mark him as so different from Geralt’s Jaskier - 

Jaskier looks unfairly good in armour, Geralt has to admit, even as he yearns for the soft doublets of his own Jaskier. Geralt is certain that Jaskier would look good in anything, but on this Jaskier, the armour looks so _right_ , and Geralt has to swallow at the sight before him. 

He misses his Jaskier, yes, but by the gods, does this Jaskier look good as a witcher, and Geralt just wants to reach out and touch him. 

“We’re waiting for Tissaia?” Jaskier asks, heading over to stand next to Geralt, resting a hand on a dagger at his hip, and Geralt takes advantage of the proximity to look over Jaskier once again, from the way his silver hair is pulled into a neat braid to the numerous weapons adorning his armour. Ciri elbows him, arching a brow, and he can read the amusement in her gaze, but Geralt gives her an even look and returns his eyes to Jaskier. He can appreciate and admire beautiful people if he sees them, and it doesn’t help that this is _Jaskier_ , as different as he is to the one Geralt knows. 

“She’s just gathering the last of her supplies,” Vesemir says, pushing to his feet. “She’ll be down… now.”

Sure enough, Tissaia floats down the stairs, and despite how she’s clad in her usual sweeping, elegant dresses, she exudes an aura of danger, chaos practically crackling around her as she casts a look over them all, mouth pursed. “I assume we are ready.”

A murmur of agreement, and Tissaia nods, a swirling portal coming into existence in the middle of the room. “Let’s go, then. May the gods favour us all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone has any tips on how to improve this (currently a mess of a) summary, please throw them at me, i suck at summaries and i need all the help


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ACTION... AND FEELS...

Jaskier is the first one through the portal, stalking through it with single-minded determination, hand still held steady over his dagger. The others follow, and Geralt reaches out to squeeze Ciri’s shoulder briefly before he walks through. 

Stepping out of the portal, he pushes back the familiar rise of bile, silently looking over the Nilfgaardian stronghold from within the shade of the trees. Two guards are stationed at the walls surrounding the stronghold, and Geralt blinks slightly at the surprising lack of defences. 

“Getting in is easier than I thought it would be, then,” Tissaia murmurs, and with a twist of her hands and a hum of chaos, the eyes of the guards go hazy and unfocused, and Tissaia gestures for them to sneak past the guards. 

The guards' eyes pass right over them as they walk past, Jaskier in the lead with Ciri bringing up the rear, and they enter the stronghold, keeping to the shadows until they reach a large set of doors, likely the main entrance to the imposing structure. 

“Should we…” Jaskier gestures to the door, and Tissaia holds out a hand, halting him before he can enter. 

“Cover me,” Tissaia says softly, and closes her eyes, likely trying to sense where Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri are, and the rest of them flock around her, pressing close to the wall. Geralt draws his sword silently, and turns around when Jaskier nudges his arm gently. 

“Potion?” Jaskier mouths, holding out a vial to him, dark liquid sloshing within, and Geralt takes it, knowing that his own stock of potions is likely child’s play compared to the concoction of a Manticore witcher. 

“Thanks,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier smiles at him, grim and determined, before handing another vial to Vesemir and downing his own vial of potion. Geralt watches, mouth falling open, as black bleeds into Jaskier’s eyes between one blink and the next, pitch black taking over bright gold, dark veins spreading across his face underneath his scars. 

Then the sound of footsteps comes from behind Geralt, but before he can react, Jaskier has spun around and hurled a throwing knife at the approaching guard. The knife slices through the air and buries itself in the dead centre of the guard’s chest, and the guard falls to the ground with a soft thump, his heartbeat fading away to nothing. 

Geralt stays on alert for any sign of the Nilfgaardians realising that they’ve broken in, listening intently to the sounds around him, listening for the patter of footsteps or the telltale scrape of blades leaving their sheaths, but there’s nothing, and he relaxes. Unwittingly, his gaze drifts over to Jaskier, whose potion-darkened eyes are fixed on the doors with fury and the promise of death and destruction, and his knuckles are white around the hilt of the dagger at his hip. 

“I’ve got them,” Tissaia suddenly says, and whispers a soft incantation. Jaskier gasps as a golden orb of light floats over to him and enters his chest, and Tissaia continues in a hurried whisper, “This will grow warmer as you get closer to them - they are somewhere in the basement, towards the east side of the stronghold.”

Jaskier dips his head, drawing his sword. “Thank you, Tissaia.” He tilts his head towards the doors, glancing at them all with midnight black eyes, eyes that still throw Geralt off slightly. “Shall we?”

At their nods, Jaskier pushes the doors open, holding his sword at the ready, and they’re immediately met with the shocked faces of a group of guards. Jaskier slashes his sword across the chest of one guard and buries a dagger into the neck of another, and Geralt follows behind him, stabbing another guard and kicking one in the gut, sending them flying backwards.

Jaskier cuts through the guards, heading to the east side of the stronghold, and Geralt follows him, wincing when he hears the sound of part of the ceiling crashing down onto the ground as his medallion hums, the familiar thrum of Ciri’s chaos twining with the sharper tang of Tissaia’s chaos as they fight the Nilfgaardian mages. 

“Hold your breath,” is all the warning Geralt gets before Jaskier tosses something towards a group of soldiers, releasing a gas that makes them cough and choke, and Geralt quickly holds his breath as Jaskier instructed. Taking advantage of the distraction, Geralt cuts down a couple of them with ease, and turns to see Jaskier whirling through several soldiers with inhuman grace, the blade of his sword flashing as he slashes and stabs, teeth bared as he forges forward with single-minded determination. 

Jaskier is deadly in a fight, utterly formidable, and every soldier that dares to charge him, to attack him, dies quickly at his blade. Geralt watches in wonder at how the Nilfgaardians barely manage to touch him, his fury fueling the swing of his sword and the way his knives fly through the air. Geralt follows after him, a silent sentinel, picking off the soldiers from behind - but part of him knows that Jaskier doesn’t really need it, knows that even if he weren’t there, Jaskier would be able to handle himself, would be able to fight through the stronghold with terrifying ease. His own Jaskier is no helpless damsel the way he likes to make everyone think he is, but this Jaskier, with extra mutations and ruthless training, rains death and destruction in his wake. 

Jaskier leads them down a random hallway, hand occasionally coming up to touch his chest, easily bringing down any soldier that approaches him, and Geralt wonders whether he has a specific direction until Jaskier suddenly casts Aard at a group of soldiers, sending them flying towards Geralt, who dispatches them easily. There’s one more soldier crossing blades with Jaskier, who toys with him lazily for a moment before slamming the soldier to the wall, holding his sword to the soldier’s throat in a more threatening mimicry of the way he’d held his blade at Geralt’s throat the day before, and this morning.

“Where are the prisoners,” Jaskier growls out, a promise of death lurking in his raspy voice, and the soldier quivers in his grip, but says nothing. When the soldier doesn’t speak after a few moments, Jaskier presses the blade closer to his throat, drawing blood. “ _Where are they._ ”

“I won’t - I won’t -” the soldier chokes out, and when he suddenly finds himself with Jaskier’s dagger pointing at his groin, he lets out a terrified shriek and babbles, “They’re - they’re downstairs they -”

“How do I get there,” Jaskier snarls, one hand holding his sword steadily at the soldier’s throat and his other hand pressing his dagger closer to the soldier’s groin, his threat clearly effective. Geralt watches him, keeping an eye for any more Nilfgaardians who might burst into the hallway. 

“T-take two left turns at the end of this - this hallway,” the soldier stutters, shaking in Jaskier’s grip, trying to press closer to the wall and further away from Jaskier’s blades. “The - the stairs will be somewhere to the right, a-and the cells are - they’re c-close to the stairs, pl-please let me go -”

A spurt of blood narrowly avoids spraying Jaskier in the face when Jaskier slits the soldier’s throat, dropping his body to the ground. Jaskier’s mouth is twisted in grim determination, eyes steely with fury as he stalks towards the end of the hallway, taking a sharp left, and if Geralt weren’t on his side, if he didn’t know Jaskier as well as he does, he would be utterly terrified - Jaskier is on the warpath right now, his only goal being to save his family, destroying anyone who dares to stand in his way, and Geralt is happy to stand back and let me. He would do the same for his family, after all.

Geralt hurries around the corner just in time to see Jaskier deftly dodge the strike of a spear and fling a knife towards his assailant, and Geralt quickly dispatches the soldier trying to sneak up behind Jaskier. Jaskier gives him a curt nod of thanks before continuing on, sword at the ready. The hallway they enter after taking another left is empty save for the guards stationed around the stairs on the right side of the hallway, and Jaskier’s steps quicken, not even bothering to look at Geralt before he launches himself at the guards. 

He slashes at one guard’s legs, sending them tumbling down the stairs, ducking underneath a blow and coming up behind another opponent, driving his sword into their back. Geralt springs into action, locking blades with a guard and kicking them backwards into the sharp end of Jaskier’s sword. 

Jaskier gives him a sharp smile before parrying a blow, bringing his dagger into his opponent’s gut, and Geralt spins out of the way of a swinging axe before cleaving the axe in half, grabbing the broken half and slamming it into his assailant, who lets out a howl of pain and crumples. With the guards at the stairs defeated, Geralt heads down the stairs behind Jaskier with the top half of an axe in one hand and his sword in the other.

“They’re nearby,” Jaskier whispers, creeping through the halls as he presses a hand to his chest briefly, eyes alert and body ready to spring into action. He takes a turn to the right, and before Geralt can catch up to him, he hears Jaskier let out a sudden snarl, followed by the sound of blades clashing and pained cries. The thud of several bodies hitting the floor and the coppery smell of blood reaches Geralt, along with a hissed, “You _bastards_.” 

Speeding up, Geralt immediately takes the turn to the right and is met by the sight of a row of cells, along with a heap of bodies strewn across the floor, blood soaking into the stones underneath them. 

Geralt glances into the cells to see a bloodied and beaten copy of himself - which never gets less jarring - along with Yennefer and Ciri, all chained to the walls with dimeritium. This Ciri is younger than the one still fighting the mage aboveground, cheeks still round from youth and her chaos untrained, and Geralt is thrown back into memories of years ago, back when he’d first met Ciri, his heart warming before clenching in fury at the dirt and cuts on Ciri’s face, the bruise over one eye, the way she slumps, weakened by dimeritium. 

Jaskier is standing at the cells, clutching at the bars. With his face splattered with blood, he looks almost savage and dangerously lethal, but his still-black eyes are filled with worry and concern and a hint of anger as he takes in the occupants of the cell, who are looking at him with wide eyes.

“Jaskier!” Ciri exclaims, trying to run towards him, but letting out a pained cry when the chains hold her back, and Geralt tamps down a flare of anger at seeing her treated in such a way. “Jaskier, you came for us!”

“Of course I did, cub,” Jaskier murmurs, one hand reaching through the bars, as if he can touch Ciri through the force of will alone. There’s so much tender affection in his voice, so much worry and concern, and Geralt’s heart warms. “I’ll always come for you. Are you -” He hesitates, eyes scanning over Ciri, looking for major injuries, his jaw tightening when he takes in the cuts and bruises, before moving on to Geralt and Yennefer. “Are you alright? Did they- did they -”

“We’re fine, Julek,” Geralt’s counterpart reassures, voice hoarse, and Jaskier’s shoulders relax infinitesimally, but maintains his white-knuckled grip on his bloody sword. “They wanted us alive - roughed us up a bit, but didn’t dare touch Ciri too much. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“I’ll _kill_ them,” Jaskier seethes, fury and vehemence seeping into his voice, fingers clenching into a tight fist. “I’ll fucking - how dare they -”

“Julek,” the other Geralt murmurs, soft and tender, and Jaskier snaps his mouth shut, even as his black eyes churn with mutinous anger. “We’re fine, sweetheart. Free us, and we can leave.”

“Yes, right,” Jaskier mumbles, shaking his head. He kneels over the bodies, the dim light illuminating his blood-streaked silver hair as he rifles through the pockets of the guards, and as Geralt steps towards him, the occupants of the cell swing their heads collectively to look at him.

The other Geralt’s mouth falls open when their eyes meet, and he moves protectively in front of Ciri, the chains jangling as he moves. “What the fu - Jaskier, behind you!”

“He’s on our side,” Jaskier mutters distractedly, still going through the guards’ clothing. “It’s a long story, but we can trust him.”

“Did you get a doppler on your side?” Yennefer demands, turning steely violet eyes onto Geralt, and he has to force himself not to flinch back under the force of her gaze, a fierce fire burning in her eyes even though she’s chained in dimeritium. “Julian, you shouldn’t -”

“He’s not a doppler.” Jaskier makes a triumphant noise, holding up a set of keys in his hand and pushing himself to his feet, sword in one hand and the keys in the other. “Keep watch for me, Geralt - not you, the other one - so I can free them.”

Geralt grunts in affirmation, watching as Jaskier tries each key, inserting them into the lock and growling in frustration when they don’t fit. The other Geralt watches him warily, Ciri inching closer to him, and Yennefer keeps glaring at him, hands twitching. It hurts to see them look at him like this, with such distrust and suspicion, hurts to see his daughter and one of his closest friends look at him like he’s a stranger, like he could pose a danger to them, and _gods_ , he just wants to go back home. 

“Oh, thank the gods,” Jaskier breathes out when a key finally fits in the lock and he twists it, causing the cell door to swing open. He rushes in and slides to his knees in front of Ciri, running his hands over her, checking for injuries and scrapes. “Ciri, _gods_ , are you -”

“I’m fine, Jaskier,” Ciri says, a familiar exasperation in her voice, and Jaskier fusses over her for a moment before testing the keys again. After a few tries, the chains clatter to the ground and Ciri launches herself into Jaskier’s arms, ignoring the blood and guts staining his armour as she wraps her arms around him and burying her head into his shoulder. Jaskier wraps his arms around her, so tight that it must hurt, but she clings to him just as tightly as he rests his face against her hair.

“You’re alright,” Jaskier murmurs, and there’s so much naked _relief_ in his voice, so much fondness - Geralt can see so very clearly how much Jaskier loves her, and that same love is reflected in the way Ciri clutches at him desperately. “Gods, cub, I was…”

“As heartwarming as this is,” Yennefer cuts in dryly, but there’s gentle fondness in her eyes as she watches Jaskier and Ciri embrace, shaking her hands pointedly and making the chains clank against one another. “I think Julian should probably free us.”

Quickly running his hand through Ciri’s hair one last time, Jaskier gently pulls away from her and starts trying to unlock Yennefer’s shackles. Ciri lingers at his side, unwilling to stay too far, and when Yennefer is free, Jaskier wraps her in a brief hug, Yennefer winding her arms around his waist.

“You worry too much, Julek,” she mumbles into his shoulder. “The dark circles aren’t pretty.”

Jaskier huffs a shaky laugh, tightening his arms around her before stepping away. “Well, I needed to make sure that you’re always the prettiest person in the room. I would have you beat without my dark circles.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes at him, mouth twisting upwards fondly as she brushes down her dress, looking put together despite the scrapes on her face and the torn edges of her dress, and the familiar hum of chaos rises around her, crackling in the air, strong despite being chained with dimeritium just seconds ago. 

“Go free your boy,” she says to Jaskier, walking over to fuss over Ciri, and Jaskier kneels back down to try the keys on the other Geralt’s chains. 

The other Geralt is gazing at Jaskier with something warm in his eyes, something soft and bright, something that Geralt thinks must be love. Right now, Jaskier makes a terrifying sight, eyes black from the potion and dark veins spreading underneath his jagged scars, deadly swords on his back and imposing armour coated in blood, but Geralt’s counterpart still looks at him so _fondly_ , so _tenderly_ , and Geralt’s heart aches at the sheer amount of love in his eyes. 

Does he look like this when he looks at his own Jaskier?

When other-Geralt is free, he and Jaskier gaze at each other for a moment before Jaskier flings himself at other-Geralt, kissing him with frenzied desperation, and other-Geralt kisses back, tangling a hand in Jaskier’s long, bloodstained hair, his other hand reaching up to cup Jaskier’s scarred cheek. It’s a mirror of the way Jaskier kissed Geralt the day before, only this is Jaskier’s Geralt, and there’s an intimate familiarity in the way they touch each other, a familiarity that Geralt longs for. 

They only kiss for a few seconds before they break away, but those few seconds seem to stretch on as they seem to be absorbed in their own world, wrapped around each other, and Geralt watches them with a growing sense of something gnawing at his heart as he yearns for his own Jaskier, yearns for this softness, this tenderness, this closeness, a yawning hollow within him longing for something bright and warm to fill it. 

“I was so worried,” Jaskier murmurs to Geralt’s counterpart when they break apart, resting their foreheads together for a brief moment. Other-Geralt strokes Jaskier’s bloody cheek gently, golden eyes soft and fond, and Jaskier leans into him for a moment before pulling away, extending a hand to help other-Geralt to his feet. 

“Alright,” Jaskier says, relief chasing the worry and grief in his voice from earlier, gaze darting over Geralt’s counterpart, over Ciri, over Yennefer, tension leaking from his shoulders. He unsheathes his other sword and presses it into other-Geralt’s hands, his touch lingering for a moment too long as he brushes his fingers over other-Geralt’s arm, as if to reassure himself that he’s here, he’s real. “We should go - hopefully the others will have taken care of the guards.”

“I knew you would save us, Julek,” other-Geralt rumbles, and a flash of sadness and guilt crosses Jaskier’s face. 

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier’s voice breaks slightly, and other-Geralt lays a hand on his arm. “I should’ve been there, I -”

“You couldn’t have known,” Yennefer interjects, wrapping an arm around Ciri’s shoulders. “Don’t beat yourself up about this, Julian. Let’s go.”

Jaskier rakes a hand through his hair. “Right, we should -” He turns back towards the entrance of the cell, and startles slightly when he sees Geralt, like he’d forgotten Geralt was there. 

Other-Geralt follows his gaze, narrowing his eyes when he sees Geralt standing outside the cell. “Julek, who’s that?”

“He’s you, but from another universe,” Jaskier explains, heading towards Geralt, the others trailing behind him. “He and his Ciri are looking for their Jaskier, and they landed in our universe.”

“How do you know he’s telling the truth?” Yennefer demands, scrutinising Geralt with steely eyes, stepping in front of Ciri. 

Jaskier shrugs, motioning for Geralt to lead the way back up. “I just - _know_. There’s something about you, Geralt, and I - I don’t know how to explain it. I just _know_.” His voice dips lower, softer, as he turns towards Geralt’s counterpart, so gentle despite the violence that marks his appearance. “I would know you _anywhere_.”

Those words strike a chord in Geralt’s heart, and he turns away, unable to watch how his counterpart and Jaskier seem to just gravitate towards each other, their bodies seeming to accommodate each other unconsciously, endless affection in their eyes as they look at each other, making Geralt more acutely aware of the absence at his side, of someone who _should be there_ , but is so, so far away.

Other-Geralt hums, clearly unconvinced, but doesn’t object as Geralt and Jaskier retrace their steps, carefully stepping over heaps of dead bodies that they’d left in their wake earlier, and Geralt marvels slightly at the sheer destruction that they had wrought together - he and Jaskier make quite a good team, and he never thought that he would ever get to fight side-by-side with Jaskier in such a way.

The sounds of fighting still continue above their heads, screams and thumps and clashes reaching Geralt’s ears from above, and he quickens his steps, not wanting to leave his Ciri up there for too long without him. Upon reaching the stairs, he’s met with a dozen guards heading their way, and dodges out of the way of a sword before his own blade finds a home in a guard’s neck. 

A familiar thrum of chaos, and two of the guards rushing them fall to the ground, clutching at their throats as they gasp for air, and Geralt catches a glimpse of Yennefer’s sharp, triumphant grin before he’s ducking underneath the path of an arrow, casting Aard at the archer and sending them flying back. Next to him, Jaskier fights as fiercely as ever, face twisted in a snarl as he smoothly decapitates a guard who was about to stab other-Geralt in the back. 

With Ciri safe behind Yennefer, Geralt makes quick work of the guards alongside his counterpart and Jaskier, and they hurry up the stairs just in time to see Tissaia strike down a Nilfgaardian mage with a powerful burst of magic that shakes the foundations of the stronghold, debris raining down around them. Behind her, Vesemir watches her back, fighting off any guard that comes close, and a small distance away, Ciri exchanges blows with the remaining mage with her magic and her swords. 

“Is that…” Other-Geralt murmurs, staring at the older Ciri, chaos whirling around her and bending to her whim, sending the Nilfgaardian mage stumbling back. 

“My Ciri, yes,” Geralt confirms, that familiar feeling of fatherly pride rearing within him as he watches Ciri block a tangle of thorny vines bursting towards her with a magical shield, retaliating with a feint with her sword followed by a stream of flame. Other-Ciri stares at her with awed green eyes, fingers twitching at her side, and Geralt can see the warrior she’ll grow up to be, can see the way she’ll grow into the way his Ciri is now, and once again glows with fatherly pride.

With one mage down, the soldiers grow desperate as they converge in on Vesemir and Tissaia, unwilling to approach Ciri and the other mage for fear of getting hit by violent bursts of magic, and Geralt can see the way Tissaia’s chaos seems to be weakening and how Vesemir’s strikes are unable to keep up with the sheer number of opponents around him. He throws himself into the fight, straying towards Ciri when he sees Jaskier and other-Geralt heading towards Vesemir and Tissaia. Yennefer keeps other-Ciri behind her as she encases them in a protective shield, behind which she sends out occasional bursts of powerful chaos. 

As he dodges and slashes and blocks the seemingly unending blows from the soldiers, Geralt momentarily loses sight of Ciri, and when he finally catches sight of her again, he can only watch in horror as the Nilfgaardian mage blasts Ciri’s shield wide open, thorny, poisonous plants bursting from the ground and speeding towards Ciri. 

He’s too far away to help, unable to do anything but watch those deadly plants hurtle towards Ciri, who struggles to bring her shield back together, and then -

“ _No!_ ” 

It’s a scream overflowing with chaos, and Geralt recognises Ciri’s voice, recognises it to be Ciri’s magic, recognises it from years ago, back when Ciri was still in training. It’s not as finely honed as Ciri’s magic is now, but other-Ciri’s chaos is just controlled enough to send the mage flying back, just enough to halt those poisonous plants in time for Ciri to reform her shield and slash her sword through the mage, making him collapse to the floor as the plants wilt and wither. 

With both mages in the stronghold down, the Nilfgaardians get even more desperate and they converge on Yennefer and other-Ciri, and Geralt hears a fierce snarl from Jaskier a small distance away as he knocks down a few soldiers in quick succession. 

Geralt’s medallion hums, and suddenly, all the soldiers’ eyes suddenly glaze over and they drop their weapons. Out of the corner of his eyes, Geralt sees Tissaia collapse against Vesemir.

“Go!” she rasps. “This will only last a few seconds - we need to _go_.”

Geralt wastes no time in racing towards the doors, cutting through the disorientated soldiers, and all the others hurry towards the doors as the soldiers slowly regain their bearings, blinking themselves back into reality. Tissaia leans against Vesemir, weak flickers of magic burning at her fingertips, and Jaskier wades through the soldiers alongside other-Geralt, blade cutting through them easily. Yennefer is ahead of them, hand-in-hand with other-Ciri as she keeps a magical shield up around them, and when a soldier attempts to sluggishly swipe at them with his sword, Jaskier sweeps his feet out from under him and stomps on his sword arm.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he hisses, and other-Geralt tugs at his armour, bringing him towards the door. 

“Julek,” he chastises, but he’s smiling fondly even as he spins around to slice at a soldier behind him, and gods, their dynamic makes him long so _badly_ for his own Jaskier, for the easy banter between them, for the way he sometimes would have to hold Jaskier, spitting mad with righteous anger, back from starting a tavern brawl. 

Jaskier rolls his eyes at him, but follows behind Yennefer as she pushes open the doors, standing over other-Ciri protectively with other-Geralt at his side, Vesemir and Tissaia joining them shortly after, with Geralt and Ciri a small distance away from the doors. By this time, the soldiers have regained their bearings, their eyes refocusing as they realise that their prisoners have managed to escape, but Ciri waves a hand as she ducks under an arrow aimed at her head and they all slam into an invisible barrier, giving her and Geralt enough time to join the others outside. 

“May I?” Yennefer purrs, smirking at the soldiers, who are throwing themselves against Ciri’s barrier. 

“Yen, we need to -” Tissaia starts, but Jaskier cuts her off.

“Show them not to come after us,” he snarls, low and menacing, glaring daggers at the Nilfgaardians as he runs a hand over Ciri’s hair, and a terrifying smile creeps onto Yennefer’s face, terrifying enough that the soldiers stop their ministrations for a moment to flinch back in fear, and Geralt is so, so glad that Yennefer is on their side.

“Gladly,” she croons, and Geralt’s medallion threatens to vibrate off his chest as torrents of flame burst from Yennefer’s hands, engulfing the soldiers, and Geralt wrinkles his nose at the smell of charred flesh. Fire continues churning from Yennnefer’s hands, but she doesn’t look the least bit weakened by the outpouring of chaos, as if she hadn’t been chained in dimeritium just minutes earlier, the savage smile remaining on her face as she floods the stronghold with roaring flames, smoke curling towards the sky.

Geralt steps back, walking away from the heat and smoke, the others doing the same as they back away from the stronghold, from the flames, but Yennefer stands tall and strong, chaos and fire pouring from her until the entire stronghold is burning merrily, licks of glowing flame swallowing the soldiers inside, burning bright against the backdrop of the sky and illuminating the way the sky fades from blue to pink and gold.

Finally, Yennefer steps away from the flames, her hands still glowing orange as she heads towards them, seeming slightly drained but not as much as Geralt would have expected after such a display of magic. 

“Very flashy,” Jaskier comments dryly, and Yennefer sends a spark of flame towards him, which he dodges easily. “Yen!”

“I still have enough chaos to open a portal,” she says, ignoring Jaskier. “Where to?”

“My safehouse nearby,” Tissaia rasps tiredly from where she’s still leaning against Vesemir. “Shouldn’t take too much energy - it’s close. You know the one.”

Yennefer nods, and a portal swirls into existence. “Let’s go.”

One by one, they head through the portal - Vesemir supporting Tissaia’s weight, Jaskier’s gentle hand on other-Ciri’s back as he guides her through, other-Geralt behind them and watching them with soft eyes, Ciri and Geralt following after them, and Yennefer closing the portal once they’re all through.

They step into the warmth and security of Tissaia’s safehouse, and Geralt feels the tension of the fight ease from his shoulders as he sheathes his sword, pushing his sweaty hair out of his face. He’s exhausted, but looking at this universe’s Ciri and Yennefer and Geralt safe, looking at the way other-Ciri flings herself into Jaskier’s arms, he feels nothing but satisfaction that in this universe, at least, Jaskier is with his family, that they’re together. 

“I was so worried, cub,” Jaskier breathes out, all the fury and determination from earlier fading into desperate relief as he presses other-Ciri closer to him. “You were - I thought -”

“You came for us,” other-Ciri whispers, muffled against Jaskier’s armour, and he strokes her hair gently. “I knew you would, dad.”

Next to Geralt, Ciri sucks in a quiet breath. _Dad_. In this universe, it seems, Ciri considers Jaskier her father, and looking at the way they interact, the way Jaskier holds her and the way Ciri clings to him, it’s clear that the bond between this universe’s Ciri and Jaskier is very different from the dynamic of Geralt’s Ciri and Jaskier. Geralt wonders at this Jaskier’s past with Ciri, how he, as a witcher, had come to become Ciri’s father. 

“I _failed_ you.” Jaskier’s voice shakes, and Geralt has to clench his fists at his sides to stop himself from reaching out to him, watching as other-Geralt steps forward to lay a hand on Jaskier’s back. “I wasn’t there - I should have been - I should’ve -”

“Julek,” other-Geralt murmurs, bringing his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, and Yennefer steps forward, placing one gentle hand on Jaskier’s arm and the other on other-Ciri’s head. “Julek, you couldn’t have done anything. It’s not your fault.”

“It wasn’t,” Yennefer agrees, and Jaskier lets out a shuddering breath, burying his face into other-Ciri’s hair. “You couldn’t have known, and we don’t blame you.”

“But I -”

“You came for us.” Other-Geralt pulls Jaskier closer, and when Jaskier looks up from other-Ciri’s hair, he presses their foreheads together. “You’re here. We’re _fine_.”

“I…” Jaskier trails off, guilt weighing heavy in his voice.

“It’s not your fault,” other-Ciri repeats, pulling back to look straight at Jaskier. Gods, she looks so _young_ that it makes Geralt’s heart ache. “I promise, dad. We don’t blame you, and you - you’re here now. You came for us.”

Leaning down, Jaskier brushes a gentle kiss on the crown of her head. “Alright, cub.” There are still remnants of guilt lingering on his face, but his eyes are softer as he looks at his family. “I’m glad you’re safe. I was - I was so…”

“We’re here,” other-Geralt rumbles, his arm still wrapped around Jaskier. “You saved us.”

“You did,” Yennefer agrees, slanting her gaze over to Geralt and Ciri. She looks less wary of them now, but still slightly distrustful. “With help, it seems.”

“They are from another universe - their magical signatures are the same as yours, but just slightly different,” Tissaia explains, and Yennefer relaxes at Tissaia’s confirmation.

“We’ll be gone soon,” Ciri chimes in, and all eyes in the room swivel to her. “We won’t be staying long. We landed here just in time to help find you.”

Ciri’s counterpart blinks at her, and Geralt can see the resemblance, can see those same green eyes, can see how this other Ciri will grow into her features, grow into the Ciri he knows today. “You’re… me?”

“In a way,” Ciri confirms, smiling gently at her younger self. “I’m not from the future, but from another universe - you might turn out to be like me, or you might not, since we lead different lives, but you - you might grow up to be like me.”

“This is weird,” the younger Ciri mutters, and Ciri laughs. 

“It is,” she agrees, and her counterpart smiles up at her tentatively. “I’m slightly more used to it now, but it never gets less startling to see other versions of myself.”

“Your magic…” Other-Ciri stares at her older counterpart with something like awe, eyes darting to the sword on Ciri’s back, lingering on the scar over her eye. “Will I - is that what I -”

“You’ll learn,” Ciri tells her earnestly, and Geralt breathes as quietly as he can, unwilling to disturb this moment, a moment that feels too important to be broken. “It will take time, and it won’t be easy, but - but you’ll learn, you’ll grow,” Ciri smiles softly, eyes crinkling at the corners, “You will have help, and you’ll be surrounded by so many wonderful, lovely people who care for you, who want to help you,” she glances around the room, glances at Jaskier, at other-Geralt and Yennefer, at Tissaia and Vesemir, settling on Geralt for a moment before returning to her counterpart. “And you _will_ get there.”

The younger Ciri nods, and when Ciri reaches her arms out hesitantly, her younger counterpart steps into her arms. They embrace briefly, and Geralt’s heart warms, that hollow ache momentarily disappearing as he watches Ciri slowly pull back from her younger self, smiling at her gently. 

Geralt glances away from them for a second, looking towards Jaskier, who’s gazing at them with fondness and affection, and Geralt is struck with the thought that this Jaskier gets to watch his Ciri grow up, the way Geralt had, gets to raise her and teach her and help her grow into wonderful, powerful adult who he will be immeasurably proud of, the way Geralt is now, and in this moment, he forgets about how far he is from his own Jaskier, from his home, watching the parental affection in Jaskier’s eyes, in his counterpart’s gaze, in Yennefer’s small smile. 

This isn’t his family. But this Jaskier, this Geralt - they have a family, and they’re together, and though Geralt misses his own Jaskier with every beat of his heart, the sight of this Geralt and Jaskier being together, being _happy_ …

In this moment, it makes him smile. 

The younger Ciri returns to Jaskier’s side, and Jaskier ruffles her hair before turning to Geralt’s counterpart.

“You’re filthy,” Jaskier remarks to other-Geralt, wrinkling his nose playfully at the dirt streaking other-Geralt’s hair, the grime coating his face. His tone is light-hearted, even though some guilt and sadness still lurks underneath. “Gods, you need a bath.”

“You’ve seen me look worse,” other-Geralt retorts, mouth quirking upwards, and the ache within Geralt returns at the way they banter so easily. “Besides, Julek, you’re not much better.” 

He swipes a thumb gently over Jaskier’s scarred cheek, splattered with dried blood, and Jaskier’s eyes go soft and bright as they stare at each other like they’re the only people in the world, like they’re not bloody and filthy and injured, like they hadn’t just been in a fight. 

Somewhere to the left, Tissaia clears her throat. 

“Take a bath, boys,” she says dryly, flicking her hand at them, but they only lean closer to each other. Her dress is impeccably clean - parts of it were torn earlier, but she must have fixed them with her magic - and her hair is unmoved from its styled updo. “There’s one waiting for you.” She turns to look at the rest of them, gesturing at the stairs. “And for the rest of you, as well.”

“Thank you,” Geralt murmurs, and the others echo him as they start heading up the stairs. His counterpart and Jaskier stay tangled together for another moment before breaking apart and following the others, but Geralt can’t help but notice the way their fingers are still interlinked, the way they exchange lingering looks even as they walk up the steps, and Geralt is happy for that they’re _together_ , he really is, but gods, he feels so cold, so empty, especially when he trails behind them, in full view of the way their hands cling to each other. 

It’s been so, so long since he last had his Jaskier’s warm, gentle touch, since Jaskier had put his arms around him, since Jaskier was a warm presence by his side, since Jaskier had touched him without reservation, without fear, only care and tenderness and love, and Geralt _wants_ -

He shuts himself into his room and squeezes his eyes shut, leaning his forehead against the door. He breathes in, breathes out, deep and slow, but it does nothing to soothe that resounding ache in his heart, to fill that hollow with warmth. 

He _will_ find Jaskier, he vows. He has to - Jaskier is out there somewhere. He’s out there, and Geralt _will_ find him - he will have Jaskier’s bright, warm presence with him again, will have Jaskier’s joyous laughs and lilting songs, his sunny smiles and endless chatter, his easy touches and warm embraces. Geralt _will_ have all that back, because he _will_ find Jaskier, and in the meantime, he’ll just have to endure this bittersweet sting of watching other Geralts and Jaskiers find their way to one another, twining around each other, finding their _home_. 

_ Soon _ , Geralt thinks, breaking away from the door to stare out his window, watching the sun climb up from behind the looming mountains, painting the sky with swathes of pink and gold. Now, in this moment, Jaskier is looking at a different sky, but soon - _soon_ , Geralt will find him, and they will be back together, and Geralt will grip Jaskier’s hand tightly in his own, pressing their bodies together as they gaze up at the same sky.

Slowly, body feeling heavy and tired, Geralt takes off his clothes and heads into the bathroom, submerging himself into the bath with a sigh. The bath is warm against his skin, and steam rises in the air around him, but Geralt feels cold, feels empty, feels hollow as he runs a washcloth over himself, as he rubs soap over his body and into his hair, and it’s so cold and lonely and _wrong_.

He misses -

Fingers running gently through his hair, the gentle hum of song behind him. Hands calloused from years of playing the lute stroking tenderly over his body, the pleasant scent of home drifting over to him, carried on a lilting tune. Carefree laughter, playful banter, overdramatic gestures - without these, without _him_ , the bath is so empty, and Geralt feels so _alone_.

The soapy water is warm, but it coats him in frigid frost in every place he’s submerged, sucks the last lingering vestiges of warmth within Geralt, leaves him empty, leaves him cold. The bathroom is quiet, only the soft sound of sloshing water as he shifts in the tub and the slightly tremulous sound of his own breathing, too loud in the quiet room, and all he can smell is the soap that he used. Gods, it’s -

It’s _lonely_ -

It’s _cold_ -

He’s _so far from home_ -

“Fuck,” Geralt grunts, his voice coming out hoarse and shaky, the sharp burn in his eyes a startling contrast to how the warm water chills him to the bone, and he dunks his head into the water, scrubbing his hands over his face, squeezing his eyes shut to chase away the way they burn and burn. The bathwater is hot, is cold against his face, and Geralt holds his breath underwater for several minutes, a chill running through his body, a fire burning in his eyes, his face buried in his hands as he pretends he isn’t shaking, shivering in the steamy warmth of the bath.

When Geralt finally lets himself resurface, his face is wet, and he pretends that the shivering and the frigid cold that has settled in his bones are because the bath is going cold, pretends that Tissaia’s magic isn’t keeping the bath nice and warm, pretends that the wetness on his face is because he dunked his head in the water, pretends that his eyes aren’t burning and his nose isn’t slightly too clogged. 

Swiping a hand roughly over his face, Geralt heaves himself out of the bath and towels himself dry, dressing himself in quick, perfunctory movements, and hurriedly leaves the bathroom, the hazy cloud of steam reminding him too much of what he can’t reach, of something far, far away.

The air outside the bathroom envelopes him in a cool embrace, and Geralt rubs his hands over his arms, but gods, he’s still so _cold_. He’s in his bedroom, now, and he stares at the bed sits alone on one side of the room, remembering the way Jaskier - not _his_ , still not his - had burrowed into his arms, remembering the warmth from the night before, and Geralt spins on his heels and pushes out of his bedroom, aching for _someone_ -

In the hallway, two familiar voices drift over to him - the low rumble of his own voice, and the pleasant rasp of Jaskier’s. The voices filter in from where Jaskier’s door is cracked slightly open, the very same door that Geralt had rushed through last night in a rushed haste to soothe Jaskier’s anguished cries, and Geralt finds himself gravitating towards that door on silent feet, careful to avoid the creaking floorboards. 

Gods, he shouldn’t do this, he knows it, but he can’t stop himself from pushing Jaskier’s door open just a little more, widening the gap so that he can peer through, and his heart trips and stumbles when he sees his other self reclining comfortably in a tub, Jaskier seated behind him in a state of half-dress, fingers buried in other-Geralt’s hair. 

Some part of Geralt’s mind registers with slight surprise that Jaskier’s broad body is riddled with countless scars, but that shock is quickly overcome by aching loneliness as he watches his counterpart lean back into Jaskier, eyes fluttering shut, and Jaskier gazes down at him with a tender smile, a smile that’s so painfully familiar despite the unfamiliar scars that run across Jaskier’s face, and the look in his eyes, even with the unfamiliar shade of gold, is the exact same one that Geralt’s own Jaskier gives him. 

Geralt should look away, he should leave, he’s intruding on this private, tender moment, but his feet are rooted to the ground and he _can’t look away_.

“I was - I was _terrified_ that I might have lost you three,” Jaskier murmurs, untangling one hand from other-Geralt’s hair to stroke his cheek gently, but there’s an agonised desperation in his movements as he touches other-Geralt, as if he doesn’t ever want to be separated from him ago. “When Tissaia said - when she told me -”

Geralt’s counterpart twists around to face Jaskier, face open and so much _love_ in his eyes. “Like Ciri said earlier, I knew you would save us,” he breathes out, reaching up to cover Jaskier’s hand on his face with his own. “You won’t lose us anytime soon, Julek. I promise.”

Something breaks in Jaskier’s expression. “But I should’ve - but what if I… I can’t lose you, Geralt.” Geralt startles at the way Jaskier says his name, so much desperate affection and unquestionable love packed into a single word, and he thinks of how his own Jaskier says his name, with endless warmth and a bright smile and soft eyes. _Soon_ , he vows. “I don’t know what I would do if I - I _lost_ you, I can’t do it.”

“You won’t,” Geralt’s counterpart promises, leaning up to press a kiss to Jaskier’s jaw. “I’m here, aren’t I? I trusted you to come, and you did. You won’t lose me.”

Jaskier dips his head, long silver hair spilling over his face, and captures other-Geralt’s mouth in his, and other-Geralt lets out a soft noise of content as he presses closer to Jaskier, soapy water sloshing around him. They touch each other so easily, so intimately, like they naturally gravitate towards each other, and this tender sight makes Geralt so acutely aware of the glaring absence at his side, the absence of someone who should be there, but is far beyond his reach, and he shuts his eyes, fighting the way they once again burn and burn. 

He hears the sound of his counterpart and Jaskier pulling away from each other, hears the soft hum of contentment that he recognises as his own, the hum that he lets out when Jaskier’s gentle touch pulls him into the haze of relaxation, and Geralt wishes and wishes that he were with his Jaskier, sharing a sweet moment surrounded by cloudy steam, filled with intimacy and tender touches. 

“I will always come for you,” Jaskier whispers, so low that Geralt can barely catch it, and Geralt opens his slightly-too-wet eyes to see Jaskier slowly lathering soap over other-Geralt’s shoulders. “Always.”

“I know, Jaskier,” Geralt’s counterpart whispers back, words slightly slurred in the way Geralt knows he gets whenever he’s content and relaxed in Jaskier’s arms, whenever Jaskier makes him feel at _home_ , and Jaskier drops a kiss on the side of other-Geralt’s head, sweet and easy. “Love you.”

Jaskier’s face breaks into the brightest smile. “Love you too, dear heart.” 

At those words, Geralt quietly steps away, lingering by Ciri’s door before returning to his own room, sitting down on the bed and putting his head in his hands as he rolls those words over in his mind. 

_ Love you too, dear heart.  _

He’d known that - he’d known that this Jaskier loves this Geralt, known that those feelings are returned, but for Jaskier to say those words -

_ Love you too.  _

It’s a possibility, one that makes hope bloom bright and warm in his heart, one that he’s seen in his Jaskier’s lingering gazes, in his sweet smiles reserved for Geralt alone, in the gentleness of his touch. It’s a possibility that Geralt has rarely let himself consider, because their friendship is so immeasurably valuable to him, because he can’t lose Jaskier. 

Jaskier makes him so happy, and though these words aren’t from _his_ Jaskier, they’re from Jaskier all the same, and -

_ Love you too.  _

And the hope in Geralt’s heart blossoms. 

Jaskier is not here. He is universes away, far out of Geralt’s reach. But Geralt will find him, will bring his heart, his home back to him, and then maybe - maybe -

_ Love you too.  _

Now, though, without Jaskier by his side, he can only hold on to this blossoming hope, to the feeling of warmth that the thought of Jaskier brings him, to the determination and conviction that he _will_ find Jaskier. 

And now, he aches, and he is lonely. He glances towards his bathroom, steam still wafting from the door. The bathroom is empty. The bedroom is empty. In a room down the hallway, another Geralt and Jaskier are twined around each other, full of warmth and affection and love, and somewhere out in the sea of universes, other Geralts and Jaskiers are together, basking in each other’s presence, but Geralt is without his Jaskier, who’s drifting through that sea alone. 

But there are so many universes, and in so many of them, Geralt and Jaskier have found their way to each other. As friends, as lovers, or even as brothers - but they’re always together, always choosing each other, and Geralt trusts that, in the same way, he will find his own Jaskier. 

Until then, he can only hold onto that thread of hope, that warm glow of love, and he will ache for bright smiles and fond eyes and warm touches that are far away. 

Geralt doesn’t know how long he stays sat on the bed, staring blankly out of the window, watching the sun creep across the sky. He hears footsteps walk past his room, pause, and continue walking. He hears soft laughter, his own and Jaskier’s, passing his door, laughter that makes his eyes burn, carves out a deeper hollow in that empty space within him. He hears low voices, Tissaia and Vesemir, grow and fade as they pass.

In his own room, Geralt hears nothing but the sound of his own breathing. Nothing, no song or tune, no plucking of a lute, no soft humming. No aimless chatter, no dramatic prose, no mumbling of lyrics. Nothing but his own breathing, and it presses down on him, curves his shoulders inwards, makes his hands quiver. It’s a silence that leaves him cold and hollow and so completely and utterly alone. 

There’s a knock on his door, and Geralt finally glances away from where the sun starts dipping below the horizon. 

“Come in,” he rasps, and Ciri steps in, closing the door behind her. 

“You alright?” she asks quietly, no doubt taking in the haggard lines of his face and the red rimming his eyes. 

“I’m fine, I just…”  _Miss him._

Ciri’s eyes soften in understanding. “I know. It’s been so long, but we - we will find him.”

“Whatever it takes,” Geralt agrees, a bit less lonely now that his daughter is with him, though something is still _missing_. “You were looking for me?”

“Yes, right.” Ciri snaps back from her melancholy, reaching up to curl her hands around her pendant. “We can leave soon.”

Geralt frowns. “But don’t you need longer to regain your chaos?”

“I was talking to Yen, and she and Tissaia lent some of their chaos to me,” Ciri explains, and Geralt sees it now, sees the way she looks far less exhausted than she’d been a few hours ago. “I tried to refuse, I didn’t want to take their energy, but they insisted.”

“Sounds like Yen,” Geralt murmurs, smiling sadly at the thought of their Yennefer, back in their universe. 

“Yeah, they…” Ciri’s voice grows quieter, sadder. “They told me to get him back, to find him. They understand how hard it is to be separated from our loved ones for so long, to be so far away from them, and they both insisted on doing what they could to help.”

Tissaia has lived a long life, Geralt knows, far longer than his own. She must have seen so much, experienced so much - and lost so much. She might seem cold and regal and aloof, but she must not want to watch others go through the same loss, not if she can help it, and Geralt is grateful. 

The sooner they find Jaskier, the better. 

“I can imagine they would,” Geralt says softly, and they lapse into momentary silence before he speaks again. “Soon. We will get him back.”

“No matter what,” Ciri agrees, eyes determined. “He can’t get rid of us that easily.”

Geralt barks out a laugh. “No. No, he can’t. After this -”

“Hello?” Jaskier’s voice comes from outside the door, and Ciri gives Geralt a hesitant look. Geralt nods, and Ciri opens the door to reveal Jaskier, dressed casually in a half-unbuttoned shirt with his medallion gleaming on his chest, leaning against the doorframe with an awkward look on his face. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt greets, waving him in. 

“I - ah, Tissaia told me that you were leaving tonight.” Jaskier wrings his hands, the anxious movement so out of place for a witcher. “I wanted to thank you once more, and to say goodbye.”

Ciri looks between them, lips quirking up slightly. “I’ll leave you two to it,” she says, heading for the door, but before she can leave, Jaskier captures her wrist in his hand. 

“Thank you, Ciri,” he says, earnest and grateful, and tentatively pulls her into a hug. Ciri stands frozen for a moment before hugging him back. “Thank you so much for helping us. It means a lot.”

“I’m still searching for my family, but I can at least help you find yours,” Ciri whispers, clinging to Jaskier tightly, and Geralt can see the emotion welling up in her eyes, the same emotion he’s felt far too many times over - not their Jaskier, but Jaskier all the same. “I’m glad Ciri - this one - has a father like you. She will grow up to be wonderful.”

Jaskier laughs shakily, hesitantly bringing a hand to stroke through Ciri’s hair. “I know she will. She is strong and capable and loving, and I can’t wait to see her grow into someone like you.”

Jaskier pulls back, dropping a kiss to the top of her head, easy and familiar, and studies her face, taking in her scar and the determined jut of her jaw and the glow of her eyes, then smiles at her, small and proud. “Thank you,” he repeats softly, and Ciri returns the smile before stepping away towards the door. 

“I was more than happy to help bring another version of me back to her family,” she replies, and gives Geralt one last nod, heading out the door. 

There’s a few moments of silence as he and Jaskier stare at each other, and Geralt drinks in those familiar features, even if some features are strange to him, drinks in the way Jaskier looks at him, kind and warm. 

Jaskier is the one who breaks the silence. “When you find him,” he murmurs, taking a few quick steps to hold Geralt’s hands in his, the unfamiliar calluses rough against Geralt’s palms, and Geralt stares at their hands, at how scars criss-cross Jaskier’s skin, several shades darker than his own. “Hold on to him. Don’t - don’t let him go.”

“I won’t,” Geralt promises, remembering how utterly devastated and broken Jaskier had looked the night before without his Geralt. He won’t let Jaskier go, because losing him is nigh unbearable, and Geralt just wants to feel _warm_ again. He wants to go home, and hold on to Jaskier, always. 

Jaskier’s hands tighten around his. “Good,” he rasps, golden eyes flicking over Geralt’s face. “You love him, don’t you?”

Geralt hesitates. “I…”

Jaskier smiles gently at him. “You do. I can see it - I recognise that look. It’s the same one my Geralt gives me.” He pulls back one hand, reaching up to tuck a strand of Geralt’s hair behind his ear. “He loves you, you know.”

Letting out a shuddering breath, Geralt lets his eyes fall shut, basking in the warmth of Jaskier’s lingering touch. “I - gods, I…”

“He does.” Jaskier’s words are filled with conviction, and Geralt’s mind drifts to the scene he walked in on a few hours ago. _Love you too, dear heart._ “Tell him you love him, and…”

“I won’t let him go,” Geralt finishes for him, opening his eyes to see Jaskier watching him. 

“I can’t bear to think of another version of me out there, without you.” Jaskier’s voice dips low, gaze going distant and sad as he takes a slow breath. “Me and Geralt - we took so long. We _had_ each other, but we - we didn’t, and it took _so long_ for us to truly _find_ each other. Don’t keep each other waiting.”

Geralt swallows. “I’m too nervous to take a chance,” he admits, finding it far easier to be honest in the presence of a Jaskier who isn’t his, who he knows loves another version of him. 

“Take it,” Jaskier implores, and Geralt gives a single nod. 

“I will,” he promises, and Jaskier squeezes his hands. “I’m so far away from him, and I’ve seen -”

Jaskier - no, Hyacinth’s sad eyes and the bitter scent of tears; Jaskier thinking him to be a hallucination, because his Geralt is _dead_ ; Jaskier, subject to Stregobor’s experiments, losing hope that his Geralt would come for him; Jaskier, who Geralt had slept with, whose Geralt has been missing for years. 

Geralt’s voice breaks a little as he continues, “I won’t - I can’t lose him. I’ll - I’ll find him, and - I will. I will tell him.”

“I’m glad,” Jaskier breathes out, barely a whisper. “I can promise that he loves you. I can see that you love him too, and - you deserve happiness. Both of you.”

“You do,” a new voice chimes in. Geralt glances up to see his counterpart hovering at the door, and there’s only fondness in his counterpart’s eyes when he takes in Jaskier and Geralt’s proximity. “I heard that you’re leaving soon, and I would like to thank you for helping rescue us. And…” his eyes trail over to Jaskier, biting his lip hesitantly, and when Jaskier gives him a nod, he continues, “Thank you for helping Jaskier last night. I couldn’t - I wasn’t there for him, but you were. And, uh - thank you.”

There’s no judgement or jealousy in his voice, only unwavering trust in Jaskier’s love for him, and Geralt yearns for that certainty, yearns to have that with his own Jaskier. 

“It was no problem. I’m happy to have helped at least a little while I spent my time here,” Geralt says, and his counterpart hums - Geralt recognises the gratitude underlying that hum. 

“And you’re heading out to find your Jaskier?” At Geralt’s nod, his counterpart murmurs, “I trust that you’ll find him. I know you will. Because that’s - that’s what we do. We find each other, over and over again.”

There’s something choked up entering other-Geralt’s voice, and Jaskier releases Geralt’s hands to head over to other-Geralt, tangling their fingers together and pressing a chaste kiss to the back of one of other-Geralt’s hands. The sight of their intimacy still gnaws painfully at Geralt’s heart, still makes him unbearably lonely, but Jaskier’s earlier words make it hurt just a little less, make him hope that one day, he will get this tender intimacy too. 

“I hope so.” And gods, does Geralt _hope_. 

“Jaskier came for me.” Geralt’s counterpart is speaking to him, but he’s gazing deep into Jaskier’s eyes, gold on gold, and Jaskier’s lips curl upwards. “You - you’re coming for your Jaskier. You won’t lose him. You _will_ find him, and when you do…”

Other-Geralt’s voice has gone raspy and breathy, but he forges on. “And when you do, hold him tight.” Geralt watches as his counterpart pulls Jaskier close, arms circling his waist, leaning their foreheads together for a brief second before his gaze returns to Geralt. “Hold him _tight_ , and treasure your time with him, and never - _never_ let him go.”

Geralt recognises that look in his counterpart’s eyes, recognises that deep, aching pain as Jaskier winds his arms around his counterpart’s neck, pressing a reassuring kiss to his jaw. There’s something shattered in his counterpart’s voice, and Geralt recalls his conversation with Jaskier the day before, when Jaskier had said, blunt and direct -

_ I died.  _

Geralt’s counterpart must have thought his Jaskier dead, and Geralt can’t even bear the thought, can’t entertain the possibility that Jaskier might be gone, ripped away from him by the permanent void of death. It would break him, he knows, and it must have broken his counterpart, the shards of which still linger in the way he clings to Jaskier, in the slight tremor of his voice.

“I won’t let him go,” Geralt promises once again, knowing that he will hold himself to that promise, the invisible eyes of dozens of Jaskiers and Geralts watching him once he finds Jaskier. “I…”

The words get stuck in his throat, and _gods_ , he wants to say them, wants to say them for the world to hear, wants to whisper them in his Jaskier’s ear - but the words don’t come out. 

“You love him,” his counterpart finishes for him, the words rolling off his tongue with familiar ease, the pain in his eyes fading away to warm affection. “Jaskier is easy to love, isn’t he?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Jaskier murmurs, brushing his fingers across other-Geralt’s cheek, bringing a sweet smile to his face.

“I will love him, always, no matter what,” Geralt’s counterpart proclaims, the words ringing out for both Jaskier and Geralt, and Jaskier makes a soft noise. “I imagine that it’s the same for you, too. You might not be able to say it now, but - I know you do.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agrees, a lump in his throat as he watches his counterpart lean in to kiss Jaskier gently, nothing more than a quick peck but filled with so much tenderness. They seem to communicate with their eyes, something that can only be borne out of decades of familiarity and intimacy, and Jaskier breaks away from other-Geralt to head towards Geralt with a gentle smile on his face.

“Take the chance,” Jaskier whispers, pulling Geralt into a sudden hug, and Geralt melts into it, melts into the strong circle of Jaskier’s arms, hungering for Jaskier’s warm touch even the Jaskier he truly wants is universes away. His breath ghosts across Geralt’s neck, and Geralt once again lets himself pretend for a brief moment, closing his eyes so that he can’t see Jaskier’s wavy silver hair as Jaskier buries his face in Geralt’s shoulder.

Then Jaskier lifts his head and kisses him. 

Geralt startles, trying to pull back, but Jaskier cups his face and brings him back in, kissing him sweetly and tenderly, and Geralt is frozen, hands floundering by his side. It’s nothing like the kiss Jaskier had given him when Geralt had first landed in this universe - it’s nothing like the frenzied, agonised desperation from the day before. Instead, Jaskier’s lips are soft and pliant, his hand warm on Geralt’s face, and when it becomes clear that his counterpart won’t stab him for kissing his Jaskier, Geralt tentatively lets himself kiss back, and feels Jaskier smile against his lips.

He tangles his hands in Jaskier’s long hair, and Jaskier lets out an approving hum as he slides one hand down Geralt’s chest. Geralt stumbles through the kiss, unsure of what he’s doing, unsure of what Jaskier wants, but Jaskier kisses him with such easy familiarity, kisses him so impossibly gently. As Jaskier deepens the kiss, Geralt wonders whether kissing his own Jaskier would feel like this - a glow of warmth in his chest, a rush of affection, a feeling of being home, being loved.

It would feel better, Geralt thinks as he runs his fingers through Jaskier’s wavy hair. It would feel even better, because it would be _his_ Jaskier, and Jaskier is his _home_ , and if kissing a Jaskier who isn’t _his_ feels this impossibly wonderful, then kissing his own Jaskier would be infinitely, endlessly better. 

After some time, Jaskier pulls back, golden eyes bright and cheeks flushed underneath his scars, and he’s beaming at Geralt, warm and sweet. “Give that to your Jaskier once you find him, alright?”

“I will,” Geralt promises, letting his eyes trace the line of Jaskier’s jaw, the shape of his lips, the curve of his nose, admiring those beautiful features that remain constant in any universe he goes to, and he lets himself _look_ at Jaskier in such close proximity, their faces only inches from each other before Geralt reluctantly steps back from the warmth of Jaskier’s body. 

“You’d better,” his counterpart grunts playfully, coming up from behind Jaskier to wrap an arm around his waist, nosing at his neck in a display of exaggerated possessiveness. Jaskier laughs at him, batting at his face, and other-Geralt lets out a mock growl. “Hey, you kissed him. You’re _mine_.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes. I just thought I’d give him a taste of what he could have once he confesses his love to his own Jaskier.” He turns a sunny smile on Geralt, leaning back into other-Geralt’s arms. “It was nice, wasn’t it?”

“Hmm.” Heat rushes to his cheeks, and Jaskier laughs again, the sound raspy but bright and joyous. 

“Oh, dear heart,” he chuckles, turning his head to kiss Geralt’s counterpart on the cheek. “No matter what universe you’re from, you’re as wonderfully verbose as ever. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Hey,” Geralt and his counterpart object at the same time, and they exchange a look of amused surprise. 

“As long as you use your words to _tell him_ ,” Jaskier says emphatically, jabbing a finger at Geralt even as he relaxes into other-Geralt’s embrace. “I’ll hold you to your promise. I might not be there, but I _will_ hold you to your promise.”

His eyes glint with a playful threat, a look that is far more effective than the ones Geralt’s own Jaskier gives him, and he pats his thigh, where Geralt can glimpse the shape of a dagger sheathed underneath his trousers, and Geralt smiles, loose and feeling far lighter than he had earlier. 

“I will carry out my promise,” he vows, and his counterpart nods at him.

“I wish you the best,” other-Geralt says, awkward but genuine.

“Me too,” Jaskier adds, beckoning Geralt over. Geralt tentatively walks towards his counterpart and Jaskier, who wraps all three of them in a hug, and Geralt pushes away the stray thought of how _weird_ it is to hug himself. It is a nice hug though, so Geralt relaxes into the warmth, keeping the memory of Jaskier’s gentle embrace in his mind, memorises the feeling of contentment to keep him company through the unknown number of universes he will have to trudge through before he finds Jaskier. 

“We will leave you to it,” Jaskier says as he pulls away, bringing Geralt’s counterpart with him. “I hope you find him soon.”

“I hope so too,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier brushes his fingers over Geralt’s cheek one last time, smiling warmly as he steps away, tugging other-Geralt out of the door. 

“Oh - if you want to stock up on supplies,” Jaskier says, pausing at the door. “Tissaia is happy to provide.”

“Thank you,” Geralt breathes out. It’s been a few long, hard weeks, and he’s grateful that Tissaia is willing to help. 

“We’re happy to help you however we can on your journey,” Geralt’s counterpart says, hand tangled with Jaskier’s. Geralt locks eyes with him, with those eyes that he sees in the mirror every day, and gives him a grateful nod. 

“Do tell us before you leave,” Jaskier adds. 

Geralt feels himself smile. “Will do.”

His counterpart and Jaskier vanish with an awkward wave from his counterpart, and Geralt is left alone in his room. He gathers his things, places them in his pack, and does a quick exploration of the room, taking a few sets of fresh clothes and soap and other necessities that he finds, then heads over to Ciri’s room. 

Ciri opens the door, her pack slung over her shoulder. “Ready?” 

“Let’s go,” Geralt says, eager to go, to resume his journey and get closer to finding Jaskier, and Ciri grins, looping her arm in his. 

“Shall we say goodbye to your dear Jaskier?” she asks, mischief glinting in her eyes as she guides them down the hallway. “It seems like you’ll miss him.”

Geralt fights back the heat that threatens to blossom on his cheeks, the memory of Jaskier’s kiss surfacing in his mind, but judging by the smirk on Ciri’s face, he doesn’t succeed. 

“He told me to say goodbye,” he grumbles, ducking his head, and Ciri lets out a peal of delighted laughter. It’s a lovely sound, bright and refreshing after numerous universes of too much heartache, too much pain. 

“You have your own Jaskier,” she reminds him with a grin, poking at his arm playfully, and Geralt swats at her with a grunt. “Don’t get caught up in all these other ones. Though I must admit, this one looks -”

“I do _not_ want to know what you think,” Geralt declares, cutting her off, and Ciri sticks her tongue out at him. His heart lightens at how carefree she looks right now, energy refreshed and caught in a moment of easy joy that has become rare in the sea of universes. “And Jaskier and I… I’m allowed to look - Ciri, don’t look at me like that.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ciri agrees as they head down the stairs. “He’s not bad-looking, hmm?”

“He’s never bad-looking,” Geralt mumbles, feeling his cheeks heat up when he realises what he’d said, and Ciri giggles at him, eyes wide and bright. “Fine, a witcher is a good look on him, alright?”

“I’m glad you think so,” an amused voice interrupts, and Geralt almost wants to die of embarrassment when he sees Jaskier lounging on the couch at the foot of the stairs, clearly having heard most of the conversation. “You would be the first Geralt to say so.”

The scene before Geralt is a tender one. Jaskier’s body is entwined with Yennefer’s, other-Ciri curled up on top of them both, and Geralt’s counterpart sits to Jaskier’s side with something resembling a disgruntled pout on his face as he looks at Jaskier and Yennefer cuddling. With his Geralt by his side and his Ciri laying on him and his Yennefer curled up against him, the insecurity from the day before has disappeared from Jaskier’s eyes, replaced by soft contentment and warm happiness. 

“Untrue,” Geralt’s counterpart grumbles, shifting closer to Jaskier to bury one hand in his hair. “You’re gorgeous, Julek. I’ve told you that.”

“You sweet-talker,” Jaskier teases, pulling back from where he’s cuddling Yennefer to press a kiss to other-Geralt’s jaw, and Yennefer lets out a long sigh that does nothing to hide the fondness behind it as she continues leaning against Jaskier. The younger Ciri wiggles out of her parents’ laps, wrinkling her nose at them as she plops down on the other side of Yennefer. Tissaia and Vesemir are seated by the dining table, looking at them all with faint amusement in their eyes. 

They’re all gathered there, like a family, and Geralt hopes - no, he _knows_ that he will be reunited with his family soon. He will find Jaskier, and he’ll bring him to Kaer Morhen, with all of their family gathered together, and he will be content, he will be _home._

“Hmm, you _are_ gorgeous though,” Geralt’s counterpart mumbles, and Jaskier kisses his cheek fondly before getting to his feet, ignoring the soft sound of disappointment that both other-Geralt and Yennefer let out at the loss of contact. 

“You’re leaving?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt nods. 

“Thank you for having us,” he says to Tissaia, who dips her head at him in acknowledgement. “I’m happy to have helped you, and I’m grateful for the hospitality you’ve shown us.”

“It was no problem,” Tissaia replies smoothly, gesturing towards the dining table, which is laden with various types of food. “Go help yourself - your journeys will be hard, and I would like to do what I can to assist you and ensure you find your Jaskier as soon as possible.”

“You’ve helped us enough,” Geralt tries to say, but Tissaia gives him a stern look, pointing to the table, and he walks over there obediently, stuffing food into his pack alongside Ciri. Once he’s done, he turns back around to see Ciri clutching her pendant as she looks over the room. 

“We can’t thank you enough,” she says earnestly, and Tissaia waves her hand, though a small, pleased smile plays at her lips. 

“It was our pleasure, and thank _you_ for helping us as well,” Tissaia replies. “Now, I believe you have a bard to find.”

“We do,” Ciri confirms, chaos humming around her to form a swirling portal, and she tilts her head at Geralt. “Shall we?”

Geralt casts a glance back at the room. The younger Ciri is staring at her older self with awed eyes, gaze flicking from the portal to Ciri and back again. Yennefer arches a brow at the portal, clearly impressed, and even Tissaia looks mildly impressed at the power swirling within the portal that will bring them to another universe. 

“Good luck in finding him,” Geralt’s counterpart says, smiling tentatively at him. “I wish you all the best in your travels.”

Jaskier has walked up to Geralt, and Geralt lets himself trail his gaze over this Jaskier’s features one last time, over the long silver hair and golden eyes and scarred dark skin, over that familiar jawline and nose and the shape of those eyes, over those lips that he’s kissed, and he thinks of his Jaskier, out there, waiting. 

“Thank you for being here,” Jaskier murmurs, leaning in to press his lips to Geralt’s cheek, a kiss, a farewell. “It was nice meeting you, and - find him. And tell him, alright? Don’t let him go.”

“I won’t,” Geralt vows, and Jaskier smiles at him, soft and warm, before stepping back, watching him as he turns back to Ciri, who’s watching him expectantly, a twinkle in her eyes. 

“Let’s go find him,” Geralt says, resolute and determined, staring at the swirling portal as he wonders what destiny has in store for them next, wonders how far away they are from Jaskier, how close they are to finding him, and Geralt’s heart beats, calling out to his home, to someone far beyond his reach, to _Jaskier_ , universes away. 

He reaches out. He takes Ciri’s hand, and together, they step through the portal, one step closer to finding Jaskier. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh wow this fic really isn't doing all that well lmao and frankly i anticipated that but oh well! looks like 22k words have gone down the drain, rip:/ i'm keeping this fic up since it's part of the 'into the jaskierverse' series even though this is a bit of a hot mess, i'm just going hide in a corner and pretend i never wrote this lol, im really sorry for this...... thing that ive written 
> 
> also if anyone has any advice on how to change the summary, please do chuck them at me, i'm terrible at summaries

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't going to end up longer than 10k, i told myself when i started writing. my other itj piece was also really fucking long, so i'm not writing another long fic, i told myself. as usual i was a FOOL and i should never trust my wordcount estimates bc WOW I ENDED UP AT 22K AND IT'S NOT EVEN THAT GOOD, SOMEONE KILL ME 
> 
> (what i would GIVE to write short but quality fic lmao but rip this wordy bitch)
> 
> come find me on tumblr [@jaskicr](https://jaskicr.tumblr.com/)!


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